Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived
by Cookie Montser
Summary: Harry escapes from his abusive family at Privet Drive after receiving a letter from Hogwarts and decides to take the world head-on. He has plans - dreams. To him, magic is a stepping-stone to the future. To power. Grindelwald is loose from his prison at Nurmengard and Voldemort plans to make his return. Enemies surround Harry and the wizarding world is lost in political chaos.
1. Chapter 1: Escape from Privet Drive

**Disclaimer** – The world of Harry Potter is owned by JK Rowling and various publishers. I make no claim to ownership

Author's Note **(please read)**: Although this may initially appear to be a retelling of Harry's adventures at Hogwarts as written by J.K. Rowling, I can assure it is anything but that. Although the majority of the characters in my story will come from the original books, their roles will very likely be different, as will their personalities, to an extent.

Furthermore, this story will follow its own stride. Do not expect to find fluffy guarding the philosopher's stone, or even a philosopher's stone for that matter (I'm not suggesting there won't be a philosopher's stone; just an example). I hope to create an entirely new story, with Harry as an entirely different person (stronger, smarter, darker), but I will draw from the universe created by Rowling, and I will more or less obey the rules of the world she has created.

So if you are expecting me to follow the sequence of events as laid out by J.K Rowling's books, you will be disappointed. There will, however, be many similarities in the beginning, but the story will diverge quickly once it is on its way.

I plan to write a great deal (hundreds of thousands of words), so this is a _very _long term project. That said, I will attempt to be as regular as possible in my submissions and write as much as I can. I will not abandon the project until its completion, and even if there are delays, I will not give up on it.

I appreciate feedback.

CHAPTER ONE

Escape from Privet Drive

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by not later than July 31._

_Yours sincerely,_

_ Minerva McGonagall_

_ Deputy Headmistress_

"Bloody hell."

The letter had arrived two weeks ago, lying by the front-door. Luckily, Harry Potter had been the first to see it—before Vernon, Dudley or Petunia could hide it from him or even have him locked up for it in the cupboard under the stairs. The cupboard was an unwelcoming place, cramped, tiny and dimlit, and it served as his permanent home. He was little more than a prisoner in the Dudley residence, subject to their whims and forced to act however they wanted him to. He was their servant and punching bag, a sub-human at their mercy.

Two weeks he'd kept the letter hidden, reading over it carefully, feeling the coarseness of the parchment under his fingers and wondering whether to believe the letter's irregular contents. He wanted nothing more than to embrace the prospect of a school of witchcraft and wizardry, if only as an escape from his living hell.

When he'd been younger, Harry had dreamed and dreamed of some unknown relation coming to take him away, but it had never happened; the Dursleys were his only family. Yet sometimes he thought (or maybe hoped) that strangers in the street seemed to know him. Very strange strangers they were, too. A tiny man in a violet top hat had bowed to him once while out shopping with Aunt Petunia and Dudley. After asking Harry furiously if he knew the man, Aunt Petunia had rushed them out of the shop without buying anything. A wild-looking old woman dressed all in green had waved merrily at him once on a bus. A bald man in a very long purple coat had actually shaken his hand in the street the other day and then walked away without a word. It had made him believe there was something _else_ out there for him.

At school, Harry had no one. Everybody knew that Dudley's gang hated that odd Harry Potter in his baggy old clothes, but they stayed well away from him. Odd things happened around Harry that no one could explain. Bullies twice his size slipped on solid, dry concrete; people stumbled when he was attacked. Nothing seemed to make sense. And there was the lightning-bolt scar on his forehead—standing as a reminder to all that he wasn't normal.

But Harry wasn't about to get his hopes up.

He may have been eleven, but Harry was no fool. What he knew of the world told him the letter had to be a lie—a fabrication for which he couldn't fathom the motive. Why would anyone set up such an elaborate prank? It was definitely outside Dudley's scope; after all, it took some genius to come up with the exotic booklist. Of course, that left only one possibility: the letter was real. Harry was anything but normal. Very early in his life, he'd stumbled upon his peculiar ability to speak to snakes. There were other things, too. If he concentrated hard enough, focused his mind to the task, he could _cause_ certain events.

It first happened when Dudley startled him one morning when he was still groggy and recovering from nightmares of Vernon beating him. Dudley had leapt out of his bedroom, scaring a half-awake Harry almost out of his skin. The incident ended with Dudley on the floor, his nose mashed as if he'd been hit. It'd been so swift that they'd all believed Harry had hit his cousin, but he knew better. They hadn't even been close enough to touch. And he remembered when Aunt Petunia had cut his hair really short and he had hated it. When he woke up the next day, his hair had been normal.

This letter, unbelievable as it was, explained all the bizarre events in his life that didn't fit neatly into his logical interpretation of things. Harry was smart—book smart and otherwise. He'd studied well ahead of what he normally had to and he was quick to grasp anything he read. His only flaw was that he was easily distracted—the boredom of mundane human studies left him with little interest in knowledge. But there was nothing he couldn't learn if he put his mind to it.

Perhaps he suffered somewhat from boredom, possibly because he was challenged at all by his studies, but

Was that part of being a wizard, he thought? To be smarter?

Was Hogwarts his way out of Privet Drive?

There was only one way to know. He needed school supplies. Therefore, money. He had to get to this Hogwarts by some means, and he undoubtedly required his guardians' permission before he could even consider attending. There was no way that was happening without Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia knowing. He'd considered it from every which way and came to same conclusion. It meant he had no choice but to show them the letter; hopefully, they would be so glad to be rid of him that they'd support his departure. Of course, that depended entirely on whether or not they took the letter seriously, which they probably never would.

But it was worth the risk. He didn't want to spend the next seven years at number four, Privet Drive until he was old enough to leave. The most Vernon would do was slap him a few times. It was worst when he was drunk, so Harry would be careful to approach his uncle when the man was sober. They would very likely lock him in his cupboard for a week or two when they were done punishing him, but Harry had honed his concentration to the point where he could open the lock to his door with a single thought, so it really wasn't that much of a deal.

So after two weeks of careful deliberation, Harry decided to reveal the letter to his guardians. It couldn't have been worse. This is more or less how it went:

He entered the living room, ignoring Dudley as he munched down on a chocolate bar. The chubby boy aimed a kick at him as he passed, but Harry's swift reflexes saved him from it. He'd always prided his speed and ability to react under pressure. He wasn't physically imposing, but he had a wiry build that was deceiving to most. Harry had spent years doing all the chores, from mowing the lawn to cleaning the house, and it'd made him stronger than he seemed.

Vernon was in his chair, reading the morning newspaper and his Aunt Petunia bustled about as usual, shooting Harry a sour glance as soon as he entered. The woman couldn't sit still if her life depended on it. Harry decided to take the direct route and get right to the problem, knowing his Uncle wasn't known for his patience. It was better to get it over with in one fell swoop than to have to explain to them what exactly was happening.

"What is it, boy?" snapped his Uncle, spotting the letter. "What's that in your hand?"

He knew it was better not to look his uncle in the eye for too long, but he have him a very direct look, hoping his emerald-green eyes wouldn't reveal his unease. "Uncle Vernon," he said tentatively, approaching the large man. "I've received a letter from someone. I think you should see it."

"A letter? Who'd be writing to you?" sneered Uncle Vernon.

_I want to kill him_, thought Harry. _I really want to kill him. I'll never come back once I'm out._

He didn't let his thoughts show on his face as he edged forward and handed the letter to his uncle. "Maybe you should see for yourself."

His uncle gave him a disgusted look and shook the letter open with one hand, glancing at it. The man's face screwed up in an ugly frown as he contemplated its contents, but his features endured a swift and drastic change. His face went from red to green faster than a set of traffic lights. And it didn't stop there. Within seconds it was the grayish white of old porridge. His eyes widened in fear, and short and rapid breaths puffed out from his twitching lips.

Harry was astute, and he had an instinct when it came to reading people. He'd seen his uncle angry almost every day of his life, but he'd never seen him scared. At least not like this. There was true fear in his eyes of the kind that only came from knowing something that was capable of terrifying him. It meant he believed what was in the letter, and that made no sense to Harry.

"P-P-Petunia!" he gasped, his hand shaking slightly.

Dudley tried to grab the letter from his father's hand, but Harry tripped him promptly with an outstretched leg. Neither his aunt nor uncle noticed the quick move. They didn't even spare Dudley a glance as the boy sputtered in rage, trying to get back on his feet. Aunt Petunia stumbled to her husband's side, took the letter from him and read the first line. For a moment it looked as though she might faint. She clutched her throat and made a choking noise.

"Vernon! Oh my goodness — Vernon!"

They stared at each other, seeming to have forgotten that Harry and Dudley were still in the room. Dudley wasn't used to being ignored. He squealed like a pig and tried to swipe Harry off his feet, but he kept his distance easily, watching his uncle's severe reaction to the letter. He wanted to kick and punch Dudley, but now wasn't the time.

"What's happening?" Harry demanded apprehensively, advancing forward. "Tell me what you know!"

"Dad!" screamed Dudley. "Harry just hit me! He hit me!"

"Get out, both of you," croaked Uncle Vernon, stuffing the letter back inside its envelope. Harry didn't move. "_I said get out you stupid boy!_"

"TELL ME WHAT YOU KNOW!" shouted Harry in response, fists clenched at his side. "IS ANY OF IT TRUE? AM I…AM I A _WIZARD_?"

"Dad, he hit me! I want you to lock him up!" demanded Dudley. The boy only then seemed to realize what Harry had said, and his mouth gaped open in terror. "W-w-what did you just say?"

"OUT!" roared Uncle Vernon at Harry. "OUT! OUT! OUT!"

But Harry stood firm, for the first time in his life. It wasn't that he'd been afraid before, but it hadn't seemed to have a point. For once, he was fighting for something he absolutely needed. He wasn't about to back away from the single chance he had to escape from Privet Drive, and his brittle eyes held steady before Uncle Vernon's advance.

"I. Said. OUT!"

Petunia screamed and Dudley cowered just as his uncle swung a meaty fist at Harry's face, which connected solidly with the boy's left cheek. The collision jarred his skull and rattled his brain, sending a wave of pain thundering through him. He sprawled across the floor, vision swimming, and something inside him snapped with brutal suddenness. All the years of torment condensed in that single moment, bringing his fury to bear.

There was a flurry of motion, almost as if a wind was blowing through the living room, and his uncle was thrown bodily into wall. He hit with a loud _thud_ and slid to the ground opposite Harry, eyes glazed with shock and anger. Even Harry, injured as he was, forgot about the pain at the sight of he'd done, albeit involuntarily. And the look on Vernon's face said it all.

It was unforgivable.

It wasn't enough to stop him.

If Harry didn't do something, there was a chance he wouldn't be around to do anything at all.

He scrambled for the door just as Vernon leapt for him. The crawling man managed to grab hold of Harry's ankle, tripping him back to the ground. Harry shook off the pain and tried to struggle free, but his uncle had a firm grip on him. Petunia's screams filled the living room and Dudley was frozen in abject terror, still trying to process what was happening.

"I'LL KILL YOU, FREAK!" screamed Vernon. "YOU BETTER RUN OR YOU'LL DIE LIKE YOUR PARENTS! WORTHLESS FREAK!"

"Get off me!" spat Harry, cocking his free leg back. "Get off me, you sack of shit!"

He hammered the heel of his shoe repeatedly into Vernon's head, which forced the man to release him immediately with a howl. Harry was out of the door a second later, staggering for the front of the house. He could hear Vernon's shouted threats following him, but survival drove him right out onto the street. He kept running, putting foot before foot, not thinking—not feeling. He didn't stop until his lungs burned and his legs ached with exhaustion.

After a while of stumbling about, he gathered his wits about him and looked around. His surrounding were familiar. He was in Westeria Walk, not far from Privet Drive and close to where Mrs. Figg lived, an odd lady who kept more than a few cats and had always been kind to him. Harry supported himself on his knees and let out a heavy breath, feeling a tide of helplessness wash over him.

He was alone.

He had nothing.

He could never go back.

Author's Note: In the next installment, Harry tries to figure out what to do now that he's left Privet Drive. It won't be easy. Please tell me if you liked the pace and detail.


	2. Chapter 2: Knight and Figg

**Disclaimer** – The world of Harry Potter is owned by JK Rowling and various publishers. I make no claim to ownership

Authors Note: The story is coming along well. I plan to write as consistently as I possibly can. I don't foresee any substantial delays in my submissions and I'm planning to put up at least a chapter every 2-4 days. They will, of course, be of several thousand words. I will not, for any reason, skip over a scene simply because it's happened before. I intend for this to be a detailed and novel experience.

Chapter Two

Knight and Figg

"Harry?"

The boy jerked up, immediately on the defensive, but relaxed when he saw who it was. The harmless Mrs. Figg. She was a batty old woman with grizzled gray hair who almost always wore a hairnet and tartan carpet slippers. She had a curious frown on her face and there was a slight edge of worry around her eyes, which Harry suspected had something to do with the spreading bruise on his face. Anyone with half a brain would be able to tell he was out of sorts, and the last thing he needed was Mrs. Figg taking him back to the Dursleys.

He was done with them. He was done being what everyone else wanted him to be. He was done being obedient and silent—submissive. He'd suffered enough beatings at the hands of a drunken Vernon to amount to a lifetime's worth of suffering, and he had the scars to show it. Harry wouldn't go back to mowing lawns and sweeping the floor. He wouldn't go back to washing Dudley's clothes or cooking their food. He was done with being weak and helpless.

He was a wizard and Hogwarts was his future.

"Harry?"

The boy schooled his frigid features, dropping a mask of calm over his fury. He was good at hiding his emotions. It was a prerequisite in the Dursley house. No one wanted to know how Harry Potter felt, and the first sign of fear was simply an invitation to be abused by them. Over the years, Harry had mastered himself to display nothing. Sometimes, he lost control, as he had with Vernon earlier, but when he wanted, he could be calm and charming. It was a survival mechanism, if nothing else.

"Hello, Mrs. Figg," he said with a bright smile. "How're you doing?"

"Very well, dear," she replied, still looking concerned. "Are you alright? You look like you've been running."

He waved his hand dismissively. "Just out of the house for a while," he replied nonchalantly. "Can I help you with something?"

The sudden question seemed to distract her. Harry had noticed the grocery bags in her hand and hoped she would want his help enough to forget whatever was worrying her.

"Would you be so kind, dear?" she asked. "I really could use some help. Been carrying these a ways now."

Harry quickly relieved her of the weight and led the way to her door, which was not far from where they were. The woman fumbled with her keys and unlocked the door, letting Harry into the crowded kitchen. A cat jumped off the table and left the room, but one still sat there and stared balefully at him.

"Do you want a glass of water? You look tired enough to fall over."

Harry gave her a wan smile and accepted the water, gulping it down quickly. It helped with his parched throat, and he was grateful for that small kindness. To Harry, even that alone was enough to gain his respect. "Well, I'll be on my way, if you don't mind. Uncle Vernon doesn't like it when I'm out for too long."

"Of course," she replied, looking at him sympathetically. "How did they take the letter? It must have been a shock to them."

Harry came to an abrupt halt. His heart beat loudly against his chest, and he could hear the blood rushing past his eardrums. _Did she just say that_, he thought? _What does Mrs. Figg know about the letter?_ It took him a second to arrive at the answer. _She's a witch. She must be. How else?_

"Oh, don't look so surprised, dear," replied the old woman, noticing his momentary lapse as she took the groceries out of their bags. "It's that time of the year. Every wizard and witch in Britain probably got a letter from Hogwarts. You should be proud; Hogwarts is the best wizarding school in the world."

_Say something_, he cursed at himself._ Think. Think. She mustn't know you have no idea._

Harry pulled the shutters down over his raging emotions and gave her an indifferent shrug. "It came two weeks ago," he replied sounding almost normal. "Uncle Vernon got over it, but Dudley's not all that happy. Might be a little jealous, I think."

Mrs. Figg cackled loudly. "Never liked that Dudley. Greedy little thing."

Harry thought 'little' had no business being in the same sentence with 'Dudley', but he didn't say it out loud. "You're a witch, then? I never had any idea."

Mrs. Figg shook her head and sighed wistfully. "Just a squib, really," she replied. "My parents were magical, but I didn't get any of it. It happens. Of course, no one ever doubted Harry Potter would be a wizard. You're about as magical as it gets."

This was one of those times that Harry knew a wrong word would ruin everything. Why would no one _ever_ doubt he would be a wizard? What was it about him? If Mrs. Figg realized he was entirely oblivious, she would likely say something to Uncle Vernon. Harry had to exude calm above all else and make sure Mrs. Figg didn't sense anything out of place. It was clear she knew something about him—about why random people approached him in the street.

Why else would ask about the letter from Hogwarts?

Mrs. Figg had been positively certain he was going to receive it, which meant she had some prior knowledge. Harry remembered all the mysterious people who had met him over the years and considered whether wizards and witches had a way of knowing their own. Even if that was the case, it didn't explain why they wanted to shake his hand.

_I can always appeal to her motherly side_, considered Harry_. She's been nothing but kind to me, and there has to be some reason for that. It's worth the gamble_.

"I have a confession to make…" said Harry slowly, taking a risk. "I know I'm a wizard, mostly because I've always known I was different, but I really don't know much else. Like about _myself_. _Who_ I am. My past, that is."

Mrs. Figg started and gazed at him with a dazed expression. Her mouth worked silently for a few seconds, and then she looked away and cleared her throat. "You mean…you don't know?"

"Know about what, Mrs. Figg?"

"Oh, dear," she murmured to herself. "Oh, my poor dear. How could Albus say nothing to you? How could you not know the story that every child in Britain—every wizarding child in the world is raised on? It's your story, after all."

Harry almost rolled his eyes. He certainly wasn't one for dramatics, but he couldn't help but feel some unease at the proclamation. Could his suspicions have been correct? Was there really some reason random people shook his hand and came to say hello? He'd always liked to believe so, but he'd never really put his heart into the fantasy.

"I haven't been told a thing, Mrs. Figg. Maybe you can help. I'd really appreciate some insight at this point; I have no one to ask, you see. The Dursleys don't much like me and it's not like I have any other family to tell me these things."

It was a low blow, playing the orphan card, but he needed to know whatever she did at any cost. Ignorance would only make his situation worse, especially if it was ignorance of his own past.

Mrs. Figg looked at him sadly. "I knew there were many things you hadn't been told, but I never expected this," she said quietly. "But I can't let you go to Hogwarts without knowing. It just isn't right. You deserve to know about your past."

"Thank you."

Mrs. Figg gathered herself. "So you really haven't been told about…about You-Know-Who?"

"Sorry?"

"You-Know-Who?"

"I know who?"

"No, dear. _You-Know-Who_."

"What?" Harry frowned at the old woman, wondering whether she was off her rocker. Maybe the cats were getting to her head. "You're saying it as it's a name, Mrs. Figg. Is 'You-Know-Who' a person?"

She bobbed her head in confirmation, setting a plate of biscuits in front of him "Eat up," she said sternly, hoping to distract him. "You're thinner than ever. Aren't the Dursleys feeding you?"

"More like I'm feeding them," muttered Harry under his breath, remembering all the long days he cooked breakfast, lunch and dinner for them. He took a bite from a biscuit, almost choking at the staleness of it and spoke again. "You were saying about this You-Know-Who fellow?"

Mrs. Figg gave a little shudder and perhaps even a squeak. He would have to be a fool not to notice her fear. "He was…a dark wizard, Harry. A very, very dark wizard. Bad as they come," she said. "He terrorized all of Britain back in the day. Not a person was safe from him."

_And what does this You-Know-Who have to do with me_, he thought?_ It must be something personal or we wouldn't be having this conversation. _Harry scoured his memory for something that would tell him what this was about, so as to put him on an equal footing with Mrs. Figg, and his mind immediately focused on the most defining and tortuous aspect of his existence.

The fact that he was an orphan.

"You-Know-Who killed my parents." He said it as a statement of fact, not a question. He didn't need her to answer. He knew. It was a leap of logic, but there was nothing he was more certain about. "My parents never died in a car accident. He killed them."

Mrs. Figg bowed her head and quickly dabbed her eyes. "It was Halloween, 1981. Everyone remembers it," she said, nostalgic and far away. "The day You-Know-Who died and The-Boy-Who-Lived came into being."

_The-Boy-Who-Lived_.

"My parents killed him, didn't they? They killed You-Know-Who."

"Your parents?" said Mrs. Figg. "I'm sorry, but no. Lily and James were good pair, but You-Know-Who was something else. No one could stop him. They died protecting you from the Dark Lord. However, when he attacked you, his own spell turned back on him and left him dead. He gave you that scar on your head.

"No one's sure how it happened, but it did," she continued. "That was ten years ago. You, Harry Potter, are The-Boy-Who-Lived. The boy who killed the Dark Lord."

There was no crackle of thunder. No flash of lightning. He didn't even feel much more than a slight uptake in his heartbeat. This had all happened long before he remembered. Events that he had no memory of and no emotional link to other than a brief sense of sadness over the deaths of his parents. He hadn't known his parents well enough to miss their loss; you can't mourn something that's never been. To tell the truth, he may even have hated them a little for abandoning him to the Dursleys, irrational though it was to blame them for his plight.

"They were brave, your parents. Heroes."

_Look where that got them_, he thought bitterly. _Heroes die._

"Harry, are you alright?"

She was worried about him. She took his silence as a sign of shock, but Harry was as calm as he'd ever been. He was cool minded—level headed most of the time. He saw things clearly, and he didn't let them get to him too often. Today, his world had fallen apart, and he was sitting at Mrs. Figg's kitchen table eating biscuits.

"I'm perfectly well, thank you," he said with a slight smile. "Just a little much to take in, I suppose. Blimey, but that wasn't what I expected to hear."

Mrs. Figg sniffed loudly and dabbed at her eyes. "You're famous, Harry," she said. "You'll do well; you'll do your parents proud. Everyone loves you."

_Yeah,_ he thought bitterly. _So where in hell have they been all these years? Why didn't they protect me from Vernon? No one loves me._

"What's his name?" he asked suddenly.

Mrs. Figg looked up. "Whose, dear?"

"You-Know-Who's," he replied. "What's his name? That can't be his real name, can it? Sounds rather stupid, if you ask me…"

Mrs. Figg looked truly afraid now. It was a sudden change, and Harry's voice faded away slowly. He didn't want to drive her away. He still needed to know what to do next. Where would he get his books? How could he pay for them? Better yet, how was he supposed to reach Hogwarts? He highly doubted it was somewhere any fool could just wander into.

"I really shouldn't say, dear," said Mrs. Figg, not meeting his eyes. "It's just not done. We don't say his name."

"Why in the world not?"

"Because…b-because he's someone to be a-afraid of, dear."

Harry really did roll his eyes this time, but luckily she wasn't looking. "You told me he was dead, Mrs. Figg. Can't hurt at all," he replied. "And I figure I'm owed at least that much, seeing as how I had something to do with his end."

That last part seemed to reach Mrs. Figg, and she managed by some miracle to summon her courage. "How about I write it down? That'll be better, won't it, dear? I'd rather not say it out loud."

"Certainly, Mrs. Figg" acquiesced Harry with a genial smile. "Just write it out for me."

"You're such a good boy."

_Yes, I am. I've always been good._

Mrs. Figg retrieved a pad and a pencil and quietly wrote something on it. She hesitated for several seconds, almost as if wondering whether or not to show him. Harry could see her will swaying, the fear taking hold, and he knew he would have to make the decision for her.

Before she could stop him, he stepped forward and slid the notepad from under her hand, turning it so he could read the name written there: _Lord Voldemort_.

"Voldemort," he said out loud, expecting something to happen.

Mrs. Figg squealed and backed away, babbling some sort of prayer under her breath. "That's bad luck, Harry," she scolded. "Don't be saying that. People mind it. It's fine if you do it in your head, but don't do it out loud."

Harry shrugged. "It's a name. It has as much power over you as you're willing to give it."

But Mrs. Figg was determined, and she kept going for a few minutes, reprimanding Harry for his slip. He really hadn't slipped, but he let Mrs. Figg believe it. He'd wanted to see her reaction to the name, to tell whether she was being truthful or not. Her response appeared genuine, and that worried him just a little. Who could be so terrifying that no one wanted to say his true name? The mere idea of it seemed preposterous to him.

"I apologize, Mrs. Figg," he said finally, hoping to put an end to her rambling. "I won't do it again. If you don't mind, I have a few more questions. If you're willing to answer them, that is. Nothing about _Vol_—sorry—You-Know-Who."

The woman seemed shaken enough, but she obviously seemed to think she owed something to Harry, because she gave him a feeble nod to continue. "Ask me what you like, Harry. I'll see if I can help."

"Well, I have this letter from Hogwarts," he said, "but I don't where to get my books and supplies from. I can't very well go to Hogwarts without a wand, can I?"

"No, of course not, dear," she replied with a tiny but nervous laugh. "Diagon Alley is the place to go—you'll find everything there from robes to a wand."

Harry scratched his nose nervously and shifted from foot to foot. "And…how exactly do I pay for them? I mean, doesn't look like Uncle Vernon's too willing. He thinks I'm a freak."

"Did he say that? _That damned muggle_."

"Eh?"

"Muggles. Non-magical people," snapped Mrs. Figg, furious. "You're not a freak, and don't let him make you believe that. As for his money, you don't need any of it, dear."

Harry perked up at this. "Why not?"

He highly doubted whether wizards gave away things for free. Then again, Hogwarts likely had some way of paying for those students who couldn't afford their books and supplies. Children like Harry who'd grown up with 'muggles'. How would he eat, though? Where could he possibly stay?

"You're a Potter, dear," she replied, leaning forward to pat his hand. "Your folk were as rich as they come. You likely have a fortune waiting for you at Gringotts, gathering interest and what not."

"Gringotts?"

"The wizarding bank, dear."

"Wizards have banks?"

"Just the one. Gringotts. Run by goblins."

Harry dropped the biscuit he was holding.

"Goblins?"

"Yes, so you would be mad to try to rob them. A vindictive race, the goblins are. Fierce, merciless and loyal—very proud too. You don't want to insult a goblins honor; best be careful around them, dear" said Mrs. Figg, wagging her finger at him. "You must have a family vault there. After all, the Potters were a powerful family. Wealthy too. I suggest you see yourself to Gringotts once you're at Diagon Alley. The goblins ought to help you with whatever you need."

"Just like that? How would they know I'm Harry Potter?"

Mrs. Figg frowned at that for a moment. "Didn't anyone send you your vault key, dear? In the mail, with your Hogwarts acceptance letter?"

Harry began to shake his head, but then he remembered they had. It'd been almost two weeks, so he'd more or less forgotten about the key. It had seemed irrelevant before the revelation that he—Harry Potter—was a wizard. The boy scrambled to search his pockets and soon enough retrieved a thin and somewhat long key. He had no doubt it was for his Gringotts vault, because it didn't seem to fit any lock he'd ever seen.

"Well, there you go," said Mrs. Figg. "I can help you to Diagon Alley if you like, dear. You should be able to get around well enough, if you stay away from the darker parts of town, that is. Maybe I'll stick my head in the Floo and have Albus send someone over to help you."

Harry was too distracted to ask what 'sticking her head in the Floo' meant, but he didn't argue with her. "That'd be great, Mrs. Figg. I'd owe you one."

"Oh, you're just a kind boy," she said, patting his hand again. "Well, come along. You should be there in a jiffy if you take the Knight Bus. Nothing faster than that but Apparating."

The boy nodded sagely at her words, choosing the path of silence over that of rapid-fire questions. The more he showed his ignorance, the more likely it was she would take him back home. Harry didn't want that; he was done—finally done—with Privet Drive. And he was done with people wanting things from him. From now on, Harry Potter came first and the world after, or not at all. He may have defeated a dark wizard (which he highly doubted), but he wouldn't lift a finger to do it again. So if they expected something of him, they would likely be disappointed.

Harry followed Mrs. Figg out into the street and stood beside her as she promptly stuck her hand out, almost as if hailing a taxi. Oddly, the street was deserted. Suddenly, there was a deafening BANG, and Harry threw up his hands to shield his eyes against a sudden blinding light—

With a yell, he rolled back onto the pavement, just in time. A second later, a gigantic pair of wheels and headlights screeched to a halt exactly where Harry had just been lying. They belonged, as Harry saw when he raised his head, to a triple-decker, violently purple bus, which had appeared out of thin air. Gold lettering over the windshield spelled The Knight Bus.

For a split second, Harry wondered if he had been knocked silly by his fall. Then a conductor in a purple uniform leapt out of the bus and began to speak loudly to the night.

"Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. Just stick out your wand hand, step on board, and we can take you anywhere you want to go. My name is Stan Shunpike, and I will be your conductor this eve —"

The conductor stopped abruptly. He had just caught sight of Harry, who was still sitting on the ground. Harry snatched up his fallen Gringotts key again and scrambled to his feet, thrusting the key back into his pocket. Close up, he saw that Stan Shunpike wasn't all that old, eighteen or nine teen at most, with large, protruding ears and quite a few pimples.

"What were you doin' down there?" said Stan, dropping his pro fessional manner.

"Fell over," said Harry, gritting his teeth.

"'Choo fall over for?" sniggered Stan.

"I didn't do it on purpose," said Harry, annoyed. One of the knees in his jeans was torn, and the hand he had thrown out to break his fall was bleeding. He dusted his clothes of and turned to Mrs. Figg. "Thank you. I'll be sure to remember it."

The old woman said some parting words and disappeared, leaving him alone with Stan Shunpike. He looked around at Stan, whose mouth was slightly open. With a feeling of unease, Harry saw Stan's eyes move to the scar on Harry's forehead.

"Woss that on your 'ead?" said Stan abruptly, pointing at Harry's lightning-bolt scar.

"Nothing," said Harry quickly, flattening his hair over his scar.

"Woss your name, then?"

"Dudley Dursley." _Smooth, Harry. Real smooth. _"So — so this bus," he went on quickly, hoping to distract Stan, "did you say it goes anywhere?"

"Anywhere in the world, Dudley Dursley," he replied, still suspicious. "You be headin' to Diagon Alley, if I'm not mistaken."

Harry stepped on board with a grin, feeling the sense of adventure come over him. "You're not," he replied. "Take me to Diagon Alley."

Author's Note: In the next chapter, Harry navigates Diagon Alley and discovers many things about his past at Gringotts. It'll be a fun chapter, so make sure to read it.


	3. Chapter 3: Diagon Alley

**Help Needed**: I plan for _Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived_ to be a considerably long and detailed project, and taking into account the effort that will be required to go ahead with this story, I was hoping for some help with it. If anyone is willing to proofread/grammar-check what I've written prior to when I post it on the internet, then please message me. I will get in touch with you and hopefully we'll start working together on the story.

Thank you.

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**Chapter Three**

**Diagon Alley**

Harry Potter couldn't help but feel let-down by his first encounter with the wizarding world. He hadn't held hopes fireworks and swirling magic, but he certainly hadn't expected such an uninteresting beginning to his journey into the unknown.

"This is it," said Stan Shunpike, conductor of the Knight Bus, from behind him, "the Leaky Cauldron. Famous place, it is. Have fun, Dudley. Watch ou' for Nocturn Alley and don' talk to anyones selling love potions; it's all a hoax. Never got me a sweetheart."

And with a BANG, the Knight Bus disappeared from behind him.

The Leaky Cauldron was a small, grubby-looking pub squeezed in between two larger buildings. If Stan hadn't pointed it out, Harry wouldn't have noticed it was there. The people hurrying by didn't glance at it. Their eyes slid from the big book shop on one side to the lingerie shop on the other as if they couldn't see the Leaky Cauldron at all. In fact, Harry had the most peculiar feeling that only he could see it. The only logical conclusion was that it probably had some magic on it to make ordinary people—muggles—not notice.

"Well," he muttered quietly, "let's see how it is, then. As ugly in as it is out?"

Harry crossed the curb and walked through the dimlit doorway of the Leaky Cauldron. For such a popular place, it was very dark and untidy—almost purposefully so, as of appealing to the clienteles' less refined tastes. A few aging women sat in the far corner, sipping on small glasses of sherry. Some even smoked long pipes, puffing blue, purple and red smoke into air. Harry was reasonably sure someone his age wasn't allowed in an establishment such as this, but wizards clearly didn't operate in the same way as muggles.

It was surprising how easily the word came to him. It was as if he'd already abandoned his past. He was a wizard. Muggles be damned. First stop, Gringotts. Second stop, wand shop. Third stop, robes. Fourth stop, bookstore. He had everything planned out.

A small man in a top hat was talking to the burly bartender, who was quite bald and looked like a toothless walrus. A few more odd characters in flowing robes sat along the bar, bantering away and tipping back their drinks. On second thought, Harry could understand the appeal of the place. It wasn't too crowded; welcoming, almost. It had a warm charm about it, almost like a cozy living room where you wanted nothing more than to curl up and enjoy the warmth of a fire.

The moment he walked in, however, the chatter died down and every eye turned to him. Or rather, the person closest to him stopped suddenly and stared at his scar, flabbergasted if not a little drunk.

"Oi!" he shouted over his shoulder, catching the attention of ever patron. "It's Arry Potter!"

An immediate silence fell over the bar.

"Harry Potter!"

"Mr. Potter!"

"Why, it's Potter!"

"Look at that scar. It _really_ is Potter, isn't it?"

The shouts were followed by a great scraping of chairs and the next moment, he found himself shaking hands with everyone in the Leaky Cauldron. Harry was quickly realizing wizards weren't the smartest people. He supposed they were naturally predisposed to being lighthearted and absolutely open with their emotions, and he found it somewhat overwhelming. Personally, he thought their sincerity would make them rather easy to manipulate.

Most of the bar-goers were already gathered around him, watching with wide and amazed eyes, almost as if expecting him to burst into fire at any moment. He returned their stares with a flat expression, hoping to convey nothing more than impassivity.

_How am I supposed to get past this crowd?_

"I'm Tom!" announced the large bartender, presenting his giant fist. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Potter. A real pleasure."

Harry took his hand firmly, and gave him a nod. "Call me Harry," he replied.

"Did you hear that, lads?" shouted the man. "He said I can him Harry!"

"David Blaine, Mr. Potter," said a tall black man. "Can't believe I'm meeting you at last. Big fan."

"Just can't believe I'm shaking you hand, Mr. Potter."

"My wife won't believe this — if only she were here."

"Delighted, Mr. Potter. Just can't tell you. Fletcher's the name, Mundungus Fletcher."

The last one caught Harry's attention more than the others. "I'm reasonably sure we've met before," said Harry suspiciously, as Mundungus Fletcher's top hat fell off in his excitement. "You tried to pick my pocket once at the mall."

"He remembers!" cried Mundungus Fletcher, looking around at everyone. "Did you hear that? He remembers me!"

Harry shook hands again and again — David Blaine kept coming back for more.

Just when they were about to swamp him and bear him down to the ground, a sharp crack like a gunshot shattered the air. "Out of my way!" said a woman's high pitched voice. "Oi, don't you pinch my bottom, pervert. I said, out of my way! Let me through, you bunch of no-good—!"

A young woman with bubble-gum pink hair broke free of the crowd, sweeping in front of him. She waved everyone away with a threatening fist, rambling off insults, and dragged him over to one of the tables. "Wotcher, Harry," she said, grinning down at him with genuine delight. "The name's Tonks, Nymphadora Tonks, but don't let me hear you call me that. Professor Dumbledore sent me to show you around."

Harry blinked at the woman's odd style, from her hair down to her painted nails, and then allowed himself a grin. "Good to meet you, Tonks," he replied. "But I haven't the faintest who Dumbledore is."

"Oh, you know. Grandfatherly old man with a large beard," she said.

Harry shook his head.

"Pointed hat? Blue robes?"

Harry shook his head.

"A little silly in the head? Glasses? Nothing ringing a bell?"

"Never met him."

Tonks sighed, and ran a hand over her face, groaning in mock horror. Harry stared at her hair, reasonable sure it had taken on a darker hue than when he first met her. It didn't seem possible, since he couldn't reconcile it with logic, but this was magic he was talking about. Could he really expect the same from wizards as he did from muggles?

"Well then, proper introductions are in order," she said, offering a slender a hand. "I was sent by Professor Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, to show you around Diagon Alley. I suppose he wanted someone closer to your age for the job, though I don't see why that would matter. It's not like we're out on a date."

Harry had the decency to blush and look away.

Dumbledore's first name was Albus. Mrs. Figg had mentioned him more than once. Apparently, he'd failed to tell Harry some pertinent things about his life, things Mrs. Figg believed him to have been obligated to tell Harry. For some reason, he formed the immediate judgment that Dumbledore wasn't a man he could trust, especially if he'd knowingly kept Harry in the dark about his past. What reason could he possibly have, anyhow?

"Thanks, but I really don't want to bother you," said Harry, trying not to sound rude, although it probably did. "If you'd just point me to Diagon Alley, I'll be on my way. I'm used to doing things by myself."

Tonks rolled her eyes. "And miss a chance to skip work?" she muttered. "Being a junior auror is about as fun as listening to old Walburga scream in my ear. I thought I'd be hunting dark wizards by now, but all they make me do is file paperwork. Nah, Harry. I'll stick with you. Can I call you Harry?"

"S-sure," he replied, realizing she'd somehow managed to invite herself along despite what Harry had said. Of course, he was suddenly far more interested in her than before. "So you hunt dark wizards?"

"I'm _supposed_ to. Haven't used my wand for anything but pranks office lately. Think it might not even work anymore," said Tonks, fidgeting restlessly in her seat. "Now, you want to eat something or do you want to have your first look at the wizarding world? Dumbledore said didn't know much at all; I suppose you're excited to see what's out there."

Harry decided he liked her attitude. She was direct and full of energy. He expected she'd provide some fun conversation, if nothing else, and she would be able to point him to the right places. He didn't want to buy some second-rate wand, after all. If the need came, he could always ditch her in some shop and sneak away. He was quite good at it.

"I just ate," he lied, not caring to waste another moment. "How about we see Diagon Alley?"

Tonks jumped to her feet, knocking her chair down in the process. "Seeya, Tom!" she shouted across the bar, startling everyone nearby "We're off to the Alley."

"Have a good time. You're always welcome here, Harry!"

Once Tonks had freed him of all the people who wanted to say goodbye, she led him out the back entrance to where red, brick wall stood blocking the way. She pursed her cherry-colored lips and stared intently at it. "Three up … two across …" she muttered. "Right, stand back, Harry. This'll really blow your mind."

She drew her wand, a slender brown thing, and tapped the wall three times with its point. The bricks began to shift immediately, almost as if taking on life of their own. At first, it simply shook, but then a gap appeared at its center through which he could see flickers of sunlight beyond. It gradually expanded outward, revealing a weltering crowd of witches and wizards dressed in robes and bustling about in a congested market place. As it grew wider, an arch formed above them and a cobbled street appeared as well, going on as far as the eye could see.

"This, Harry," said Tonks, "is Diagon Alley. Close your mouth; you'll catch a fly"

She barked at Harry's speechless state, slapping her thigh, and dragged him through the archway after her. Tonks was quite prone to manhandling him. Harry glanced back in time to see the archway shift once more, flowing back brick-by-brick to its original state as a solid wall. This was the beginning he'd been looking forward to. The wizarding world was everything he had hoped it would be.

The sun shone brightly on a stack of cauldrons outside the nearest shop. Cauldrons — All Sizes — Copper, Brass, Pewter, Silver — Self-Stirring — Collapsible, said a sign hanging over them. Some seemed old a worn, while others sparkled with a new polish. Ten Galleons, twenty Galleons—thirty.

"Yeah, you'll need one of those soon enough," said Tonks. "Snape is a pain in the ass—oops. Forgive the French. Snape's your potions professor. A real piece of work, he is. We'll be back here once we visit Gringotts."

Harry nodded along with her words, though not really hearing her. He turned this way and that to take in his surroundings, amazed at the abundant magic around him. Broomsticks, the kind you fly on, were displayed in shop windows; their handles were polished and made to fit the hand snugly. One of the brooms in the store window stood out more than any other did. The Nimbus Two-Thousand. A group of excited boys stood around it, trading details about the latest model—air speed, angular velocity, dynamics.

"I bet you'll be a great flyer, Harry," said Tonks, noticing the direction of his gaze. "You have the body for it. You'll probably play for the Gryffindor team, just like you're your father did."

Harry frowned at her. "Gryffindor? Is that some sort of club?"

"You might say so, but there's more to it than that. Gryffindor is one of the four wizarding houses of Hogwarts—as old as the school itself," she replied. "There's Gryffindor, Slytherin, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. I was in Hufflepuff myself, but I see Gryffindor in your future, Harry. They're all about bravery, daring, nerve, and chivalry."

_Great. Then it's the last place I'm going_, thought Harry. _To hell with bravery and chivalry_._ I won't put my life on the line for anything. Just because my parents did, doesn't mean I have to_._ I'm my own person._

He understood why others expected him to have those qualities, but all Harry wanted was comfort. Power enough that he wouldn't have to worry about people like Vernon; power enough that he wouldn't have to depend on anyone but himself. Harry would never put himself at anyone's mercy again, not like he had with the Dursleys. His loyalty was to himself and no one else.

"What about the houses?" he asked, driving the somewhat shameful thoughts back.

"Hmm…" Tonks looked at the sky thoughtfully as they made their way through Diagon Alley. "Hufflepuff, my house, is all about hard work, patience, loyalty, and fair play. We're friendly people, honestly. They call the lot of us duffers, but don't believe a word they say. We're the backbone of the wizarding world."

Harry hid his grin. This was obviously a touchy subject for her.

"Then there's Ravenclaw, of course. A bunch of know-it-alls, if you ask me. You'll never see one without a book in his hands. But they're a smart lot, so if you need your homework done…well, you know where to look," she explained. "Slytherins are the worst of all. You should stay away from those snake worshippers. They're all about ambition, cunning and resourcefulness. A treacherous and dark bunch. I reckon every dark wizard in history was from Slytherin."

_Slytherin_, mused Harry thoughtfully. _Cunning and resourcefulness. There's nothing at all wrong with that, is there? Why shouldn't a person have ambition? It's not selfish, is it?_

"They really worship snakes?" asked Harry. "Why in the world?"

"Oh," replied Tonks, waving her hand, "I didn't mean it literally. But they _are_ kind of obsessed with the creatures. The founder, Salazar Slytherin, could speak to snakes. It's the House symbol."

Harry straightened, suddenly attentive. "Can all Slytherins? Speak to snakes, I mean."

"Certainly not." She snorted in a very unladylike manner. "It's called being a Parselmouth. Only the heirs of Slytherin have been known to speak to snakes, and there haven't been that many of them. Last one who could was You-Know-Who himself, and you know what happened to him."

_You-Know-Who could speak to snakes, _thought Harry, rendered momentarily speechless by the revelation. _Does that mean we're related? Am I an heir of Slytherin? _He tried to arrive at some conclusion that didn't involve him being related to Voldemort, but he couldn't accept that he and Voldemort had something in common by mere coincidence. The probability of such an event occurring was unbelievably low. But it was rather clear from what Tonks had said that she didn't know about his ability, so he was afraid even to ask her whether it was possible.

_Does it mean I'm bound to be dark…like Voldemort?_

The thought was uncomfortably close to home. For as long as he could remember, Harry had harbored an urge to hurt anyone who tormented him. It was a dark impulse, one that filled his dreams with images of blood and death. He'd tried for many years to deny it, but there times that he'd almost enjoyed the thought of hurting Vernon. Of making him beg—

"You do know who he is, right?" she asked, snapping him out of his reverie. "The Dark Lord?"

"Yeah," replied Harry, shaking of the rising tide of darkness. "Voldemort or whatever. Mrs. Figg told me."

Tonks choked silently beside him, caught off guard by the use of You-Know-Who's name. He didn't really care, though. Harry wasn't going to live in fear of a dark wizard who was long dead, even if he had terrorized much of Britain in his time. It seemed ridiculous to be afraid of speaking his name, as if a name along could make a man terrifying. After all, if the stories were true, Harry had managed to put him in his grave when he was only a toddler. That fact alone seemed to detract from his Dark Lord's image of evil.

Harry was distracted when he noticed a sudden change in Tonks's appearance as soon as he'd said the words, likely triggered by her shock. Her hair went from light pink to dark purple in under a second and seemed to grow several inches. If he hadn't been looking, Harry might not have believed it possible, but it happened right before his eyes.

He pointed up at her head, trying to find the right words, and hoping he didn't offend her. "I-is that something all wizards can do," he asked, quelling the urge to tug at her hair to see if any of it was real. "I remember when I was boy I didn't like how my Aunt had cut my hair. It grew back overnight as if she'd never cut it at all. Can we all do that?"

The woman seemed to snap out of her momentary daze and turned to give him an intent look. "When did this happen?"

"When I was eight or nine," he replied. "I can't remember exactly."

Tonks's eyes glazed over for a moment, but then sharpened on him. "You're just full of surprises, Harry," she said with a devious grin. "Dumbledore never said anything about you being a metamorphagus. Blimey Harry, but that's rare. There aren't that many of us out there anymore. You ought to be proud."

"Wait…you mean…wait, what do you mean?"

Tonks turned to him and screwed up her face as if she was thinking about something particularly distasteful. A moment later, her nose seemed to stretch and droop slightly, even taking on a slightly hooked shape. It was over in a second, but Harry hadn't missed the sudden but fluid change in her features. The new look made her distinctively less appealing than before, but a moment later, she reverted her nose to its original shape.

"Metamorphing, Harry," she said, tapping the tip of her nose. "It isn't all that hard to change the color or length of my hair, but it's much difficult to actually to alter my face or body. That has more than a bit to do with bone structure and flesh. Much harder, and it takes a lot more energy."

Harry was nodding calmly. Surprisingly enough, he realized he was, in fact, quite calm. It all seemed so…normal. _Why shouldn't it, after all. There're probably far crazier things out there. I mean, look at Diagon Alley. It's in the middle of London and no one's ever heard of it. That's a neat trick right there. What's a bit of magical plastic surgery compared to that?_

Tonks put a hand on his shoulder, looking almost worried. "It's not a bad thing, Harry," she said quietly. "You're not a freak, you know. People might even envy you since you never have to worry about pimples or scars. You can look however you want to. It's a gift."

It's a gift. Harry appreciated that more than anything else. Here, in the wizarding world, he wouldn't be considered an outcast for anything. Magic was an equalizer. It explained everything, and therefore people were willing to accept the inexplicable.

Then again, he _was_ Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived. If his time in the Leaky Cauldron was any indication, there would be more than a little scrutiny when it came to his affairs. The tiniest thing would be unraveled and analyzed. His mistakes would probably be advertised and put before the world to ridicule. People were more than willing to tear down their heroes, if only for the sake of entertainment.

"I'm not worried," he replied with a shrug, once again hiding behind a façade of calm. "But you might be wrong about the metamorphagus part. I only ever did it the one time. Maybe I'm not like you."

Tonks hooked her arm in his and continued down along Diagon Alley with a jaunty stride. "Oh, it'll start showing now that you've hit eleven," she said. "It might even get a little crazy. I remember, some days I was a blonde. Others a redhead. Then purple, green and blue. I couldn't even change it back until I learned how to control it. Took me months."

Harry stared at her in horror. "You mean I might have pink hair? _Pink_?"

She tossed her head back and laughed into magic-charged air. "Lighten up, Harry. It'll be a great conversation starter. The girls will _love _it."

He didn't know what to say after that. Luckily, he was saved when someone shouted into the crowd from nearby, his voice enhanced by some means. Harry would have thought he was speaking into a microphone if it weren't for the wand he held to his throat, obviously amplifying his voice. He was dressed in bright white robes that were lined with gold, and he had a matching white top-hat. His shoes were polished black, and he sported a elegant pair of mustaches that arched onto his cheeks.

"Grindelwald is free, brothers and sisters!" he shouted, throwing out his hand. "The gates of Nurmengard have fallen; Grindelwald roams the world a free man! Rally, brothers and sisters! We must fight! The Ministry trembles in fear while Albus Dumbledore sits safe behind the walls of Hogwarts, biding his time!"

The man stared at the crowd with demented eyes. "Who will save us from this new menace so soon after He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?" he demanded of them. "Do not hold your breath for Albus Dumbledore! Do not hold your breath for the Ministry! _Do not hold your breath for the Boy-Who-Lived_! Fight, brothers and sisters! FIGHT!"

Harry had stopped, captivated by the words, but Tonks pulled him along swiftly, barreling through the crowd. "Ignore that nut job, Harry," she snapped furiously. "Doesn't know what he's talking about. If I was on duty, I'd have him arrested and put on trial. Stirring up trouble for no good reason."

But the boy had no idea what was happening. "Who's Grindelwald?"

Tonks huffed and shook her head. "A dark wizard. Dumbledore put an end to him years ago, but he escaped his prison at Nurmengard two weeks ago," she replied, sounding livid. "It has nothing to do with you, Harry. Don't let what he said get to you. No one expects you to fight Grindelwald. Merlin's beard, your only a boy."

_No one expects me to fight, _he thought. _Well, they have no damn right to expect anything of me. What has anyone ever done for poor Harry Potter, beaten, abused and locked under the stairs? No more than a slave in his own home_.

He didn't say it out loud, of course, but anyone who knew him well would have seen the cold anger that settled in his brittle, green eyes. Before he could muster his thoughts and grill her on Grindelwald, Tonks pulled up in front of a grand building which was somewhat crooked but which still stood out noticeably against the backdrop of Diagon Alley.

"Gringotts, at last" said Tonks, sounding almost relieved. "Wizarding bank for wizards with money."

"It's magnificent," he murmured distractedly, still thinking about Grindelwald.

"It is, isn't it? I just love the smell of gold in the morning."

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Author's Note: In the next chapter, Harry discovers a great deal about himself that he wouldn't have imagined in his wildest dreams. Some of the revelations leave him shaken to his bones.


	4. Chapter 4: Noble and Most Ancient House

Author's Note: The story is finally coming along now that the stage is set. Tell me what you think, whether you want to PM me or tell me in reviews. I would very much like to know what I'm doing wrong in terms of the actual writing, if that's possible. Thanks!

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**Chapter Four**

**The Noble and Most Ancient House**

The goblin was almost a foot shorter than Harry but made up for it with sheer character and poise. He had leathery, pointed features that belied a clever mind and sharp tongue, and there was a distinct hardness about him that brooked no nonsense. His beard was trimmed to a point, and his hair combed back over his oval head in neat lines. Looked like a true banker, he did.

"Mr. Potter."

The words were without inflection, straight-forward and commanding.

"Yes?" inquired the boy tentatively, coming to a halt in the wide foyer of Gringotts Bank. "Is it really that easy to tell? I'm sure you can't see my scar."

The goblin stuck his chin out. "It is my business to know, Mr. Potter," he said, sounding almost offended. "If I couldn't recognize the owner of one of my largest accounts, I wouldn't be a goblin, would I?"

That really made no sense at all, but Harry didn't have it in him to disagree. "I suppose not," he replied with twitch of his lips. "But how did you know I was coming? Or were you waiting for someone else?"

"As I said, Mr. Potter: it is my business to know." The goblin turned to Tonks, nodding his head at the woman. "Greetings, young auror. Gringotts thanks you for bringing Mr. Potter to us. He is in safe hands now, so you may return to your business."

The dismissal was clear and rather abrupt. It may even have been rude, but the goblin spoke in matter-of-fact terms. It somehow negated to rudeness of it. Harry knew he had to learn how to do that. _Neat trick_.

Tonks bit her lip and edged closer to Harry, almost as if trying to use him as a shield. "Actually, I'm here to look after him," she said, obviously attempting to be polite as possible. "Dumbledore's orders. Don't want to disappoint him, do I?"

The goblin straightened imperceptibly. "Albus Dumbledore has always has had faith in our abilities," he replied. "And I mean to discuss delicate and personal matters with Mr. Potter. I assure you, it will take quite a while, and I would prefer he is not accompanied by anyone. Our meeting _must_ remain private."

The goblin gave Harry a pointed look, clearly demanding his help with the matter. The little creature had an uncanny ability to communicate a great deal without saying anything at all. Mrs. Figg hadn't been exaggerating when she said they were a proud race. The last thing Harry wanted was to get on the goblin's bad side.

He sighed and turned to Tonks. "You don't have to worry about me," he said, smiling up at her. "I really can take care of myself, you know. Been doing it for years. And it's all tedious, anyways. I'll just settle business here and buy my books. Then I'll head back home. I'll be fine, Tonks. Really."

She looked unsure, shifting from foot to foot and still biting her head. "I don't think I should, Harry. Dumbledore said—"

"I will personally speak with Albus Dumbledore and take responsibility for your departure," said the goblin. "I swear upon my name and the name of my clan to protect Harry James Potter so long as he is my care."

Without waiting to hear her argument, the goblin ushered Tonks out of the door, practically barreling her into the street. Harry just managed to shout a 'goodbye' before she disappeared behind the swinging doors. The goblin turned on foot and returned to Harry, giving him a piercing look as if hoping to see inside his mind.

"I am Griphook the Stalwart, Master of the Keys at Gringotts," he announced. "I have waited many years to make your acquaintance, Mr. Potter."

Harry bowed automatically. He didn't know why he did it, but the goblin seemed too noble not to bow to. He regretted it almost immediately, but Griphook's expression settled his doubts. The goblin looked quite surprised, if not flattered, and Harry remembered what Mrs. Figg had said about them being proud. A bow from The-Boy-Who-Lived probably counted for something.

"I'm glad to meet you, Mr.…Stalwart?"

The goblin waved one of his long and delicate hands. "Griphook, please."

"Please call me Harry."

The goblin arched an eyebrow. If his reactions were any indication, goblins clearly weren't treated well by those they worked for, which was something Harry had in common with them. "If you would follow me to my office…there is a great deal I need to tell you, young Harry. A great deal indeed."

He led him across the marble foyer—eyes following their progress—and passed a row of elegant doors into a spacious office that was filled with books and parchments and lined with bookshelves at every wall. Griphook settled on a high chair behind the desk and gestured for Harry to join him opposite.

"Before we begin, Mr. Potter, I must take first take a few precautions," said the goblin. He'd reverted back to Mr. Potter the moment they were seated, implying they were down to business. "If you wouldn't mind, please hold out your right hand, palm open."

Curious but not worried, Harry did as he was asked. Quicker than the eye could follow, Griphook pierced his thumb with a needle and brought a parchment to the tiny cut. He dabbed its corner in the drop of blood that welled out, and then shook the parchment until the blood was dry.

"I apologize for that, Mr. Potter. That was to confirm that you are, in fact, Harry James Potter and not an imposter using polyjuice potion," he explained, setting aside the document in one of his desk drawers.

Harry didn't bother asking what polyjuice potion was. It was rather clear from what Griphook had said. He guessed it was somewhat like what Tonks did—metamorphing—but it was done using potions instead of innate ability. Despite the lack of technology, wizards seemed to have some neat tricks up their sleeves.

"Are you satisfied?" he asked, sucking lightly on his thumb and then rubbing it on his jeans, leaving a pinkish stain.

"I am, Mr. Potter. Your blood sample matches the one on record, provided to us by your parents soon after your birth," he said. "I understand you may be pressed by time and wish to withdraw money for school supplies, but there are significant matters of inheritance I wish to discuss with you which I've not been given to opportunity to do so until now."

Harry frowned at the goblin, relaxing in his seat. "Why wait this long?"

Griphook's gaze darkened somewhat. "Because your location was not disclosed to anyone in the wizarding world but a chosen few, Mr. Potter. I was not amongst those chosen. It is a well-known fact that the Ministry, on behest of Albus Dumbledore, placed you in a muggle home after the events in 1981," he replied.

_What—? Dumbledore put me in that madhouse? All these years I've been trapped there because him—didn't he even care to check up on me? Who is he, anyways? What right did he have to decide where I stayed?_

"For many years, I have attempted to make contact with you. It was futile in the end, I gave up eventually, knowing you would show yourself in time," continued Griphook, distracting him from his dark thoughts. "When my people informed me you were in Diagon Alley, I knew you would soon be at my door. I have handled your account for the past ten years, ever since Gringotts was made the trustee of your estate."

The boy was suddenly alert. "_My e-estate_?"

"Yes."

"I don't understand."

The goblin arched his fingers as he leaned forward on his desk. "You hold one of the largest accounts at Gringotts with substantial resources to your name, Mr. Potter. It is precisely why I have always wanted to meet you."

_Am I hyperventilating?_

Harry gathered a deep breath and let it out slowly, instilling some calm into his shaking limbs. What did any of it mean? If 'substantial' meant the same thing to Griphook as it did to Harry, was it possible that would never to have to go back to the Dursleys? That he could support himself and not worry about Vernon, Petunia or Dudley? He didn't want to believe it, but the mere possibility had his heart beating rapidly in his chest.

"How large—_exactly_—is this estate?" he asked slowly, struggling to keep his hopes down—struggling to keep dreams of grandeur at bay. "As you can probably tell, this is all news to me."

The goblin nodded and signaled for Harry to get comfortable. "In order to understand the magnitude of your wealth, Mr. Potter, it is necessary to understand how you came by that wealth to begin with," said Griphook. "I assure you, the story is quite interesting.

"There are twenty-eight noble houses in the wizarding world, known by many as the Sacred Twenty-Eight. They may arguably hold more power than the rest of the wizarding world combined, and their wealth alone supports our entire economy. They are, undoubtedly, the building blocks of our world," explained the goblin, falling easily into the role of storyteller. "Amongst these houses there is one that has always stood out: the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, stretching as far back as the fourteenth century.

"The majority of the Black estate was held—until twelve years ago—by Orion Black, making him the patriarch of the family," continued the goblin, "but he had a younger brother by the name of Cygnus Black. Are you keeping up so far, Mr. Potter?"

"More or less," replied Harry, frowning. "But I don't see what this has to do with me. I'm a Potter. Is my family on the Sacred Twenty-Eight?"

"Sadly, no. But we should take this one step at a time, Mr. Potter. It will all make sense," replied the goblin.

"Very well," replied a miffed Harry, though he kept his annoyance bottled up.

He doubted Griphook would respect an emotional reaction from him. The goblin was put-together—organized and efficient.

"Orion's younger brother, Cygnus Black, had three daughters. Bellatrix, Andromeda and Narcissa," said Griphook, his eyes growing distant. "Bellatrix married into the Noble Lestrange Family and became a Death Eater, a follower of You-Know-Who, soon after leaving Hogwarts, thereby preventing her—by law—from inheriting any portion of the Black estate. Andromeda, the second daughter, was disowned by her Aunt, Walburga—Orion's wife—after she married a muggle-born wizard below her noble station. This is quite frowned upon in the pureblood families."

_Walburga_, thought Harry quietly. _Didn't Tonks mention that name_?_ Are they related, possibly?_

"The young auror who escorted you here is Andromeda's daughter from her marriage to the muggle-born, but she too has no claim to the Black estate, seeing as how her mother was disowned," continued the goblin. "Then there is Narcissa, wife of Lucius Malfoy, who by her marriage into the Malfoy family cannot inherit the estate either."

Harry was truly curious now. He had no idea how this was going to tie in with him, but he could already guess where this was going. Why else would Griphook relate this elaborate tale?

At this point, the goblin smiled deviously. "The line of Cygnus Black has therefore ceased to be," he said. "The only people with a chance to inherit the Black estate are Orion's children, Sirius and Regulus Black. Regulus Black was disowned by his own father when he was suspected of joining the Dark Lord's side as a Death Eater. He has since been cleared of the charges against him, but his father died before he could correct his will. That leaves only Sirius Black, best friend to James Potter, and your godfather."

Harry was suddenly sitting straight in his chair. "My what?"

"Godfather, Mr. Potter," he replied. "Sirius Black and your father were best friends while at Hogwarts. An inseparable pair, or so I hear. Alas, their friendship eventually crumbled. During the war against You-Know-Who, Sirius betrayed your parents' location to the Dark Lord. It was that betrayal that ultimately led to their death and to You-Know-Who's downfall at your hands."

Harry could only stare, lost for words.

"Sirius Black is currently incarcerated for life at Azkaban—wizarding prison—for murdering more than a dozen muggles along with a wizard named Peter Pettigrew," continued Griphook. "Do you see where I'm going with this, Mr. Potter? None of the original Blacks remain to inherit the estate."

Even a fool would have been able to make out Griphook's point. With all the potential heirs either disowned or disqualified, Harry was the only one left by virtue of being Sirius Black's godson, who'd once been his father's best friend. As it so happened, the man was responsible for his parents' deaths, and the ruin of his entire life. If it hadn't been for Sirius's betrayal (or so Griphook claimed), Harry would have lived out a reasonably normal life with his parents. He would have known love and kindness instead of hate and pain.

Perhaps this was his justice.

Harry realized he was smiling. A cold and cruel smile, twisted by the bittersweet victory. The hand that had caused his suffering was the hand that would finally set him free. The irony of it almost made him laugh.

"And this…wealth," asked Harry, "has been sitting here all this time? Waiting for me?"

"Not precisely," replied the goblin, shifting in his chair. "After Sirius Black's conviction, you did _indeed_ inherit the estate. It helps that you are related to the Blacks by the way of Dorea Black, your grandmother, or the other wizarding families may have tried to interfere. Because you were isolated from the wizarding world and too young to manage your assets, Gringotts was appointed the trustee of the Black estate by the Wizengamot, which is both the legislative and judicial branch of the wizarding world."

"Why weren't my guardians, the Dursleys, made the trustees?"

Griphook shook his head. "It is unknown for guardians to be trustees. There is a conflict of interest and a potential for abuse of authority," he replied. "Gringotts has a time-honored legacy of serving as the trustees for large estates. I, in turn, was appointed by Gringotts to oversee your account. I have been doing so ever since."

"I hope everything's still there," said Harry, concealing his worry.

Griphook gave him a flat look. "I'll have you know, Mr. Potter, that I have almost doubled the value of your estate in the past decade," he said with a haughty sniff. "The Ministry for Magic has instituted key pieces of economic legislation in the past few years which have provided me ample investment opportunities into every possible field. I believe you may even an own a toy-making factory or two, if it interests you."

It was Harry's turn to look annoyed. "I meant no insult, and no…it doesn't interest me. I've long since grown out of playing with toys" he replied. "I will try to be delicate with this, but I must ask you: you seem to be holding something back. I suggest you get right to it."

The goblin paused for a moment. For a moment, there was a shadow of surprise in his eyes, but it disappeared as quickly as it had come, leaving him a blank slate. "Impressive, Mr. Potter. I suppose it was unwise of me to underestimate your ability to read me," he said, although there was no malice in his tone. "What I've been reluctant to disclose, Mr. Potter, is that there is one step you must fulfill in order to gain access to the Black estate. It can be performed here, in this very room, _if_ you are willing."

Harry considered the goblin with a sharp but veiled gaze. Griphook was a professional; it was abundantly clear from the moment they met. He would do whatever he had to further his position at Gringotts, which meant keeping Harry as a client of the bank, if his story about the Black family could be believed. He didn't seem like the kind to jeopardize that for personal gain. Then again, what did Harry know of goblins?

"What do I have to do?"

Griphook set a parchment in front of Harry and leaned back. "The moment you sign this document and mark it with your blood, you name will be changed from Harry James Potter to Harry James Black."

It was the last thing he'd been expecting, and he was reduced to a vegetable for a brief moment. "T-that's it?"

"That is it."

"I don't understand."

"The matter is quite simple, Mr. Potter," he answered. "It has always been the rule in all the noble houses that only someone who holds the name of the family is capable of inheriting. It is precisely why Narcissa Malfoy was not able to do so. In order for you to gain access to your money, you must adopt the Black name officially as your own. You will be able to keep James as your middle name, but Potter must go. It is an old house, but it is a lesser one."

Harry stared at the document for no more than five seconds before making up his mind. It was all so clear to him. The entire day had been clearer than any other in his life. It was almost as if a shroud had been lifted from his vision. Nothing at all was a shock anymore, not even the fact that he was magnificently wealthy.

"So all I have to do is change my name?"

"It seems so."

"Sure, I don't see why not."

Without pausing, he relieved Griphook of the needle and pricked his thumb. He marked the document with his blood and then took a long, flowing quill from the goblin. His crooked signature followed a moment later, sprawling over the bottom of the parchment and sealing the deal—officially.

He was Harry James Black.

_Sounds a little odd_, he thought.

_Harry James Black_.

_Black…Harry Black._

_Can I call myself James Black?_

Griphook looked at him for a long moment before shaking his head. "I assumed you would resist any suggestion to change your name."

"And why would I do that?" he asked. "It's only a name, one that means nothing to me, frankly."

"Perhaps it has little value to you, but it means a great deal to the rest of the wizarding world."

Harry shrugged indifferently and perhaps even with an edge of impatience. "Morally speaking, I think it's far worse to exploit my name than to give it up entirely," he replied honestly. "My parents died that night—sacrificed themselves so I may live. I did nothing. Perhaps I _am_ responsible for Voldemort's death, but people attribute his defeat to me because they have no one else to put on the pedestal. The public has a need to make heroes, and they have a need to burden those heroes with unrealistic expectations.

"Some dark wizard named Grindelwald is free, as you've probably heard. I don't have the faintest idea who he is, but soon everyone will expect me to do something about him," continued Harry, his voice taking on an icy tone. "Did I ask for that responsibility? No. Do I want it? Certainly not. The Potter name may be a famous and respected one, but it comes with many strings attached—strings I want nothing more than to sever. I am, in the end, my own man. I will do what is best for _me_."

Griphook stared intently at him, and there was a shadow of amazement in that gaze. "You are not what I expected."

"Exactly," replied Harry, almost triumphant. "That's my point. You had _expectations_, even though you've never bothered to get to know me. And I have likely disappointed you. It wouldn't be so if I was anyone else, but because my name has Potter at the end of it, you made assumptions and reached conclusions that had no factual basis. You think less of me now than when I walked into this office."

The goblin laughed for the first time, a deep and rich sound. "You have grossly misinterpreted my meaning," he said. "I am anything but disappointed. We are not a sentimental race, us goblins. We understand the need for survival and the need to fend for oneself. If anything, I respect you more for protecting your own interests than if you had expressed some self-righteous ideal of heroism."

Harry leaned back, somewhat embarrassed by what he'd revealed. He was always calm, until he wasn't. It was like there was a switch in him, waiting to be flipped. Waiting to let loose all that pent up anger. Fortunately, he had nothing against the goblin himself or it could have been much worse.

"I'm honored to have your respect, Griphook," he replied humbly, hoping to save face.

The goblin seemed to straighten at the praise. His features grew hard, however. "I must warn you, though. Simply assuming the Black name will not make people forget who you are, Mr. Potter."

"Mr. Black, please. Let's keep up appearances."

The goblin inclined his head. "Very well, Mr. Black," he corrected. "My point stands. You cannot erase your past so easily. As for strings, there are more than a few attached to the Black name, which is both ancient and respected. You are now the patriarch of one of the Twenty-Eight Sacred, or at least you will be once you come of age. Even so, you represent the future of the Black name, making you one of the most powerful wizards in Britain. In fact, there is a seat reserved for you in the Wizengamot, one you may give away to a candidate of your choice. This alone is considerable power for an eleven-year-old to wield, especially in this day and age."

Harry contemplated Griphook's words. He was most definitely correct in his analysis. The Black name would no doubt attract attention if the goblins estimation of his wealth and power was true. No doubt, he would also be a subject of public ire once everyone found out he had assumed the Black name, considering two members of the family were Voldemort's followers and therefore natural enemies of the Potter house.

Taking on the Black name was like wearing the enemy's uniform.

But it would award Harry freedom he'd neither had, nor ever hoped to have.

_It might stop people from looking at me as if I'm some hero sent to save them, expecting the impossible of me. If they believe I'm a selfish boy, looking for wealth, they'll lose faith in my abilities. _

_And what's wrong with that, _thought Harry suddenly on the defensive, struggling with his own conscience._ I owe them nothing at all. Nothing. If ever I had a debt to anyone, I paid it back tenfold in the Dursley house. No one has any right to ask anything of me—not after what I've been through._

"I stand by my decision," said Harry firmly, although a sliver of doubt lingered along the corners of his mind. "Now, is there anything else I should know?"

Griphook immediately reached into a drawer and withdrew an envelope from within. He turned it over, and two items fell out. One was a long and elegant key and the other a silver ring that glittered in the flickering torchlight. They sat there for a moment, emanating silence, until Griphook picked up the first of the objects.

"This is the Master Key," he said, handing it to Harry. "It will work on any lock in the Black estate. Whether at the Black Manor, 12 Grimmauld Place or your many apartments around Britain. The magic of the key is charmed to recognize only one person—the master of the Black House. You. It is useless in any hand but yours. If you happen to lose it, it will find its way back you by some means or another. It is charmed to do so, and nothing but powerful magic will prevent it from doing so."

The moment the key entered his hand, Harry felt a sharp spike of warmth rush through him. It streamed into his veins like liquid fire and made his toes curl inward. It was a pleasant but disconcerting sensation, one that was filled with magic.

"That would be the magic recognizing you," said Griphook, noticing his reaction. "This second piece is far more important. It is the Master Ring. Here, you can see the Black family crest on the front."

The silver signet ring was indeed marked with the Black seal, two leaping wolves on either side of shield marked with a sword. The words _toujours pur_ were etched below the emblem.

"Always pure," translated Griphook smoothly. "Many consider the Black family to have origins in the dark, but it is worth nothing that Orion Black—greatest of them all—never supported You-Know-Who. To his death, he opposed the Dark Lord, although he disagreed with Dumbledore's methods during the war. It's a shame his sons and niece did not have the same sense he did, and all the more shame that you are all that remains."

Harry slipped the ring on and flexed his fist. It'd seemed too large for him, but the moment he put it on his finger, it tightened almost as if made of rubber. He'd chalked it off to magic—once again. There was no flash of warmth this time, however. He supposed the ritual had been completed when he touched the Master Key, which seemed like a matched pair along with the ring—both silver.

"And what purpose does this serve, other than looking good on my hand?"

Griphook managed a thin smile. "Primarily, it provides formal evidence of your position at the head of the house," he replied. "The ring will not accept anyone who is not. Beyond that, it will key you into the wards protecting all the Black properties."

Harry looked up from the ring. "Wards?"

"Magical safeguards," explained Griphook. "They serve as defenses against physical and magical attempts to penetrate any of the Black properties. The ring will allow you to bypass all defenses as well as give permission to anyone you trust."

"Ah. What else?"

"It may also serve as a means to make payments," he replied. "If you ever buy anything, simply hold your ring against the bill and it will leave a mark on the parchment. A magical signature if you will, one that cannot be forged by any means. Gringotts will receive notice of the purchase instantly and the amount will then be paid from Vault 711—the Black family vault."

"Wicked," murmured Harry, turning into an eleven-year-old for just a second. He tried to imagine all its potential uses, but there far too many for him to deal with.

"Yes. Wicked," deadpanned the goblin. "As for your expenses, they will be drawn from an expense account. It will be extremely difficult to deplete the expense account, but should it happen, I have the authority to replenish the funds from the trust held by Gringotts."

Harry focused on Griphook. "Would there be any reason not to do so?"

There was a short pause in which the goblin clearly considered what to say. "Only if I had evidence you were being exploited or if you were squandering your fortune," replied the goblin honestly. "However, you do not strike me as the kind to be wasteful. Nor do you seem capable of being pressured too easily. I don't see why I shouldn't be able to accommodate your wishes, though I advise you to be prudent when choosing friends. There are many out there who would prey upon you given the chance."

"Great," muttered Harry sourly. "What else?"

The goblin bent down for _nth_ time, withdrawing another envelope similar to the one before. He showed its contents to Harry rather than turning it over on his desk, and Harry saw there were twelve or more rings inside, each identical to his own, but each made of gold instead of silver.

Harry let out a loud whistle. "And what is this?"

"The brothers to your Master Ring," he replied, handing Harry the envelope. "You may award these to those whom you trust dearly. I would be careful to whom you give them, however. The rings are a symbol of friendship and trust."

"What happens when if I decide to hand them away?"

Griphook held up his right hand, and there, on one of his fingers, was a ring exactly like the ones in the envelope. "Allow me to demonstrate."

He touched his index finger to the top of the ring and close his eyes, almost as if meditating. A moment later, Harry felt something wash over him—an odd feeling he couldn't shake.

_Mr. Black. Can you hear me?_

Harry almost let out a shrill scream, but he just barely managed to contain himself before he was made a fool off. He did, however, leap to his feet. But the goblin's eyes were still closed, so he dropped down quickly and arranged himself in a comfortable position, one which he hoped exuded calm and command rather than utter, humiliating fright.

Tentatively, Harry mirrored Griphook and touched the Master Ring with his index finger. He started to concentrate, and almost immediately felt a something extend outward from him. It was almost as if a part of his consciousness had detached itself from his mind and flown across the room, settling in Griphook's head.

_Griphook. Is that you?_

_It is indeed, Mr. Black_, he replied. _A pleasant surprise, no?_

Harry shuddered and withdrew his finger. "Most definitely a pleasant surprise," he said out loud, sounding entirely insincere. "Terrifying too, if you consider I know almost nothing about the wizarding world. A warning might have helped."

The goblin opened his eyes, and there was a hint of mischief there. "I hope you do not mind, but I have taken the liberty to equip myself with one of your rings. As the person in charge of your account, I believe it is prudent that we have some means of immediate communication," he said. "I'm unsure whether these will work very well once you cross Hogwarts's walls, given the ancient wards surrounding the school, but we will see when the time comes."

Harry could do nothing but nod, and he only stopped when he realized he'd been bobbing his head for one moment too long. He shook the vestiges of shock off him and resumed his cool demeanor, hoping Griphook didn't think any less of him because of his reaction.

"If you have no more surprises like that, I suppose there's only one thing left to consider," said Harry. "The inheritance from my parents, Lily and James Potter."

The goblin looked away, but not before Harry caught the worried look on his face. "Ah, yes. _That._"

Harry tilted his head, contemplative. He was glad he'd spotted Griphook's reaction, because it put him at a slight advantage. "You seem uncomfortable with the topic. Is there something I should know?"

"Always astute, Mr. Black," he complimented, but he still didn't seem as relaxed as before. "I know, of course, that you have only recently been exposed to our world. Likely when you received you acceptance letter from Hogwarts."

"Yes, but what has that to do with my inheritance?"

Griphook sighed. "A great deal, Mr. Black," he replied. "You see, the Potter wealth, though substantial, has been split between you and two others."

Harry blinked. "Sorry?"

"Two others, Mr. Black," he repeated. "Your elder brother and sister, Rose and Damien Potter."

Harry just stared. Then he jumped to his feet, unable to take in what Grip had just said.

"What the f—?"

* * *

Authors Note: In the next chapter, Harry has to come to terms with fact that he has a brother and sister—alive and well. Furthermore, there's a lot of Hogwarts shopping to get done and he still has to deal with the Dursleys.

P.S. He meets Ron in the next chapter. It'll be a unique encounter for the pair, so do read it. It'll blow your mind.


	5. Chapter 5: One Potter, Two Potter, Three

Authors Notes: Past the 20k mark, and in just four days. This is far more exciting than I expected it to be. Once again, I claim no rights to any of this. In fact, I may even be taking ideas from other fan-fictions I've read. If I draw too heavily on someone else's idea, I'll try my best to give them credit, but it's difficult to find the origin of something considering the sheer massiveness of Harry potter fan-fiction out there.

* * *

**Chapter Five**

**One Potter, Two Potter, Three**

"What the f—?"

Harry snapped his jaw shut with enough force to leave his teeth aching. He realized he was standing and lowered himself onto his chair, struggling to draw in a breath. It was as if someone was sitting on his chest, squeezing the air out of him with a viselike grip. Every time he thought to draw in a breath, his chest radiated with a sharp and sudden pain that stopped him dead in his tracks.

"What…?"

He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose, praying for an ounce of patience, if not more. He would need more than just a little if he wanted to get through the conversation that was certainly to come.

_ A brother _and _a sister_, he thought dazedly. _As if one wasn't bad enough, there're two people out there who I could've known. Who I could have been with all my life. Both elder than me. _

_Rose and Damien…Rose and Damien…Rose and Damien._

Griphook waved his hand and a glass of dark liquid appeared in front of Harry. "Drink, Mr. Black," he said sternly. "It will help calm your nerves. I certainly expected you to react worse than this. I must compliment you control."

_You can shove that up your—_

He didn't think twice about it. The glass was at his lips and he swallowed it down. A moment later, he was fighting the urge to spew the contents of his stomach all over Griphook's speckless clothes. It tasted like milk several months sour and didn't smell any better either. If he didn't believe Griphook valued his continued existence, he might have assumed the goblin was trying to poison him.

Even so, he managed to down two whole mouthfuls before giving up and setting the glass aside. "W-w-what in hell was that?" he sputtered. "I can't even feel my tongue anymore!"

"A tincture distilled from the heartblood of a—"

Harry clapped a hand over his mouth, holding down the flood that threatened to break free. He sucked deep breaths in through his nose, not thinking about what his drink had been distilled from. The mere thought of having drunk blood, even something distilled of blood, left him nauseated.

He wondered in the rational corner of his mind whether he was offending Griphook's sensibilities by reacting so aversely to his offering. It was a worrying thought, considering he needed the goblin for future endeavors. Worrying enough for him to master control over his body and force down the bile, restoring a modicum of peace in Griphook's office.

He realized, with shock, that he felt good. Almost as if he'd just woken up from a long and comfortable sleep, muscles ready for exercise. It was…_good_. The drink may have tasted worse than anything he'd ever dared put in his mouth, but the effects were more than worth it. It was like an energy drink on steroids, one that worked almost instantly.

"I sincerely apologize for my reaction, Griphook," he said, bowing low. "As I said, I've had limited exposure to this world. A warning might have helped. I thought I was drinking a coke."

The goblin gave him the oddest look. "I'm not familiar with that remedy," he replied, "but you need not worry yourself. Even the most hardened of my people cannot stay seated once the _homa _rushes down their throat. You are nothing if not impressive, Mr. Black. Yes, indeed."

He sighed with relief. At least he hadn't alienated the one person he needed to see his plans to fruition. "So I have family? Like actual family?"

Griphook nodded. "When your eleventh birthday drew close, I gathered information on them in anticipation of this meeting, knowing you would likely have questions. I have something on file that should provide you with an idea of who they are," said the goblin. "Would you like to know about them?"

He hesitated, but he couldn't hold back the curiosity. Nor could he imagine a valid reason not to know. "Sure…tell me what you know."

The goblin glanced down and a parchment appeared miraculously in his hand. He unrolled it and let his eyes drift over the words. "Rose, your sister, will soon be attending her second year at Hogwarts. She is by all means a brilliant student, achieving first position in her class the previous year," he said, almost as if he was reading a grocery list. "It comes as no surprise since she was sorted into Ravenclaw—a first for the Potters. Clearly, she inherited your mother's famed intellect and not your father's capricious temperament."

Harry didn't know how he felt about a goblin knowing more than he did about the type of people his parents were. Nor more about a sister he hadn't known existed. It seemed wrong, somehow, as if he'd failed in his duty. It wasn't a rational thought, but emotion was never rational. A hard earned lesson for him.

"Your brother, Damien, will soon attend his third year at Hogwarts," continued Griphook, unfazed. "He is a difficult student who is frequently in trouble with his teachers but well-liked by fellow students in Gryffindor, much like your father was in his time. Damien has escaped harsh punishments up to this point because he scores well in his subjects, albeit not as well as his sister. Furthermore, Damien is the adoptive son of Severus Snape, the Potions Master at Hogwarts, which provides him a certain degree of protection."

The last words reached Harry as if out of the end of a tunnel, distant and echoing. "What do you mean, Severus Snape?" The boy shut his eyes, trying to keep his anger down. "He didn't grow up with humans? Muggles, I mean."

"It would appear not," replied Griphook, glancing over the parchment for confirmation. "Your sister was taken into the home of Minerva McGonagall, Transfiguration professor at Hogwarts, while your brother was taken in by Severus Snape, Potions Master. Although it appears your siblings were raised separately, they've had ample opportunity over the years to become familiar with each other. My investigators tell me they spent quite a few summers together."

Jealously burned him. Black, illogical jealousy. What was so special about them? _What_? Why them and not him?

"Wait, wait, wait," said Harry, raising a hand and pushing away the treacherous feelings, fighting to keep the rage bottled up. "If they were put with magical folk, why in the world was I sent to my aunt's house? Is this some kind of sick joke? Let's give The-Boy-Who-Lived an abusive childhood filled with bruises and broken bones while the other two get to live it up?"

The goblin's face stilled—it became a mask of cold. The change was so sudden Harry thought the anger was directed toward him, but his words said otherwise "Bruises and broken bones?" demanded Griphook. "What are you saying, Mr. Black? Did your muggle family do something to you?"

Harry cursed his anger. It always decided to rear its head at the worst possible time, during moments when calm was necessary. He'd tried more than once to teach himself some control, but none of it seemed to work. Now, he'd revealed the one thing he'd hoped others wouldn't find out.

A rotten secret he kept close to heart.

"We're going off topic," said Harry dismissively, hoping his tone would dissuade the goblin from prying any further. "I want to why I was sent to muggles. I want to know why I couldn't live with a wizarding family. Or with my brother and sister for that matter. I want to know who's responsible for this!"

It looked like Griphook wanted to say more, but he quietly let go of the matter.

The goblin glanced over his documents repeatedly, appearing quite confused. It was clear he hadn't thought much of it. "I have no explanation whatsoever, Mr. Black," he replied finally. "After your parents died, I assume it was up to Albus Dumbledore to decide where you went. He was the leader of the movement against You-Know-Who, of which you mother and father were a part. He has considerable powers within the Ministry of Magic and must have had you three placed in separate homes. I cannot fathom why, to tell the truth."

_Who the hell is this Albus Dumbledore?_ _I've been hearing his name ever since I spoke to Mrs. Figg. Everyone talks about him like he's some damned saint, but he doesn't seem much more than a stupid, old man_.

Perhaps his analysis was somewhat faulty, prepossessed to look negatively upon anyone who might have had a hand in putting him at the Dursley home, even if their link to his misfortune was tenuous at best. But Harry didn't care if he was prejudiced. Dumbledore had put him there, and if he didn't have a good reason for it…Harry imagined all the things he would do.

"Let's that aside for a moment," said Harry. "How is it they survived that night Voldemort killed my parents?"

Griphook jerked in his seat, but he managed to compose himself with remarkable ease. Still, a pained expression marked his face. "They were, in fact, not there at all, Mr. Black," he replied. "You and your siblings had been split up for protection. I assume you, as the youngest, stayed with your mother."

That made sense.

"And…" Harry cleared his throat. "Do they know about me?"

The goblin chuckled humorlessly. "There is no one who does not, Mr. Potter, no one who is not raised on tales of You-Know-Who's demise. They were brought up in the wizarding world, and that fact should hold true to them as well."

It may have hurt less if they hadn't known. That way, Harry would have been able to justify their not coming to save him. But the fact that they _did _know made it so much worse—a betrayal, almost. If he'd been told he had a brother out there, who was without a mother or a father, living amongst muggles, he would have done anything it took to reach him. And perhaps they had tried? Who knew? After all, they weren't much older than him. It was quite likely they failed in their attempts.

But that dark part of him didn't believe it, whispering away in his ear.

Griphook cleared his throat. "As I was saying before, Mr. Black, the Potter estate has been distributed between you and your siblings. Your portion remains substantial, nonetheless, but it is a small fortune compared to what you inherited from the Blacks," he said. "The key you received along with your Hogwarts letter is for Vault 687, which originally belonged to your parents."

Harry held up his right hand. "I think the Master Ring will do for now, don't you?" he replied, deciding to leave the topic of his family behind.

"It is more than sufficient, yes."

There would come a time when he would have to face the truth, but it wasn't now. He knew that to make decisions without full knowledge of a situation was paramount to failure. Harry would attend Hogwarts; he would see his brother and sister. He would ask the questions that needed answering, and then he would decide what had to be done. Until then, he would try not to think about it.

"We still have one last thing to discuss, Griphook, and it's vitally important that it gets done." Harry prepared his next words carefully. "I will _never_ return to my aunt's home under any circumstances. Legally, they remain my guardians, but you must find me a way out of that house. I am willing to pay more than enough to see it done."

Griphook was quiet for a moment and then said, "Before we proceed, I must ask, Mr. Black…concerning the matter of what was done to you by the muggles…you said some words, and I hope to understand what happened to you."

Harry forced himself to smile. "It's no matter. Forget what I said back then. All that matters is you secure my freedom."

Griphook's hands folded on the desk as he leaned forward. "I insist strongly, Mr. Black. The context will aid me."

"I can't," said Harry, sitting stiff in his chair. "I have nothing against you, Griphook. I simply can't speak about it; I refuse to."

The goblin sighed. "Mr. Black, discretion is my life," he replied. "If ever I spoke a word of what you told me outside this room, my clan would strip me of my title. They would strip me of my home, my wealth, my family—even my name. I would be _untouchable_. A ghost—destined to wander places were light does not shine. It is a fate no one but a goblin can understand, Mr. Black. That is the punishment for betrayal amongst our kind. You can trust me."

"If I didn't think I could trust you, I wouldn't have stayed as long as I did," countered Harry. "But I have pride, Griphook. You understand pride, don't you? I can't speak of what happened to me in my own home without lowering myself to level of a dog. My pain is my own, not to be shared with anyone. I've borne it this long, and now I can be truly free of it—with your help."

The silence was deep and abiding. Harry met Griphook's gaze to let him know he wouldn't back down. He'd stared into Vernon's hateful eyes for years, even when the man's fists crashed into his ribs, leaving him weak and breathless. His uncle's malicious gaze had taught him to stare down even the most menacing enemies, and the relentless beatings had taught him how to turn off the pain—to be dead on the inside.

Griphook must have seen the steel in him, because he finally dipped his head in defeat. "I will do what you ask, no matter the price," he said. "I warn you, however, that the means I will employ may result in considerable misfortune for your erstwhile family. Is it what you want?"

"It's what I want," he replied with conviction that came from a dark part of him. "Don't tell me what you do. Just tell me when it's done. They live at number 4, Privet Drive in Little Whinging. They have a son, Dudley, who they love very much. Use him if you must."

The goblin paused for a moment and then inclined his head a second time, which was twice more than he had during their entire meeting. At some point, Harry had gained his respect. Why, he couldn't fathom. All that mattered was that he had.

Just to be over with it, Harry stood and looked down at the goblin. "Do you suppose you can send someone along to help me with my shopping? I'll have a lot of luggage when I'm done."

"Of course, Mr. Black," replied Griphook, clearly relieved with the change of topic. "I think it is time you meet Kreacher, your house elf."

_I have my own Legolas? Wicked._

* * *

Harry was back in Diagon Alley not ten minutes after Griphook had summoned Kreacher, who'd simply materialized out of thin air in the middle of the office. He'd stood as tall as a goblin, but had long, droopy ears and skin brown as tanned leather, though covered in map of wrinkles. His eyes had shone with a dark and malevolent light—directed at Harry—and he'd struggled to choke out an appropriate greeting to his new master.

Harry was sure the house elf had snuck an insult or two into their initial exchange of words. Only a fool would miss Kreacher's obvious reluctance to serve. Griphook had assured him, however, that the house elf had little choice in the matter. He was bound by old magic to serve the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, of which Harry was now the head.

The mere thought of placing another being in such servitude sent a horrified shudder through him. He didn't raise the issue of course, knowing the wizarding world operated far differently from the world he'd come from. However, he would remedy the situation as soon as possible. There had to be a way to win Kreacher's loyalty and hire him as a…not a slave.

Eventually, Harry had dismissed the grumpy little thing with the promise that he'd summon him if he needed help. His departure from Griphook's company was done without much fanfare, ending with the wizard bowing to the goblin, and the goblin returning it in kind. All in all, it had been the most enlightening meeting of Harry's life—short perhaps of his talk with Mrs. Figg.

Standing there in Diagon Alley, surrounded by wizards and witches in robes, Harry stuck out like a sore thumb. The knees of his jeans were torn, and his shirt hung off his shoulders, far too large for his lean frame. His hair was messy and standing in odd places, but Harry had managed to conceal his scar enough that not every second person stopped to shake his hand. In fact, no one seemed to pay him much attention beyond a cursory glance.

Suited him just fine.

The-Boy-Who-Lived reached into his pocket and withdrew the letter from Hogwarts.

UNIFORM

First-year students will require:

1. Three sets of plain work robes (black)

2. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear

3. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)

4. One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)

Please note that all pupils' clothes should carry name tags

COURSE BOOKS

All students should have a copy of each of the following:

_The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1)_ by Miranda Goshawk

_A History of Magic _by Bathilda Bagshot

_Magical Theory_ by Adalbert Waffling

_A Beginners' Guide to Transfiguration _by Emeric Switch

_One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi _by Phyllida Spore

_Magical Drafts and Potions _by Arsenius Jigger

_Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them _by Newt Scamander

_The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection_ by Quentin Trimble

OTHER EQUIPMENT

1 wand

1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)

1 set glass or crystal phials

1 telescope

1 set brass scales

Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad

PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS

_Uniform first_, thought Harry, looking down at his poor state. _A good set of robes will do the trick._

Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions was just around the corner, a two story building that had frilly robes on display outside. Harry was surprised to find someone waiting for him just inside. She was a tall, smiling witch dressed in violet robes, with the promise of overpriced goods in her eyes.

She presented Harry her hand, and gave him a slight bow. "Mr. Black," she said, obviously not recognizing him for who he really was. "I was informed by Griphook you were coming my way and that I should accommodate you in any way possible. If you would follow me, we'll have you fitted in no time."

He passed several people on his way through the store, many his own age, all who stopped to stare. He doubted it had anything to do with him being Harry Potter and more with the fact that he looked like a homeless man off the street. He entered the back of the shop and found himself in the company of a young witch, who directed him to stand in front of a set of body-length mirrors.

A tape measure began running the length of his body, while the assistant girl looked over particular choices of fabric, presenting each to Harry. He picked out three different ones, all dark shades that would pass as black in the shadows, and he would have picked even more if it weren't for the boy standing not far from him, receiving the same treatment from his own assistant.

His eyes were on Harry.

"Hello," said the boy. "Hogwarts, too?"

It was the way he said it. With a curl of his lip and a twist of his nose, almost as if he couldn't stand the sight of Harry standing there in patched clothes. The boy had a bright head of ginger hair and a face spotted with freckles. He was quite tall and wide in the shoulders, but he wasn't all that impressive in front of Dudley and his friends. They could have crushed him flat.

Harry already been through too much today, and he didn't feel up to talking to anyone—especially not this git. Even so, he pushed down his impatience and replied, "First year."

"Oh? Me too."

Silence stretched between them.

"Ron Weasley," he said, obviously meaning himself. "You must have heard of my family."

He was well dressed. Better than well dressed. Even Harry, who knew nothing about robes, could see the boy was wearing the best money could buy. Of course, his snide greeting had been the first sign of an affluent upbringing—a spoiled rich kid.

_Seems like some things just don't change. Here's another Dudley just waiting to happen._

"I haven't," replied Harry, not caring to explain he was new to the wizarding world.

Ron Weasley's cheeks darkened. "Oh, where've you been?"

"With muggles," replied Harry, deciding to be literal.

The boy's mouth twisted again. "I see. Can't imagine how bad that must have been, not being with wizards," he said, confirming his status as an A-Grade arse. "I would kill myself if I had to live with _their_ kind."

"It'd be a favor to all of us," muttered Harry under his breath.

The young witch heard what he'd said and quickly turned away to hide her smile. Harry slipped on a robe with the assistant's help and turned around in circle, seeing how it looked on him. It was a little wide in some places, and she began pinning it to fit his frame.

"So what happened to you?" asked Ron Weasley.

Harry gritted his teeth. "Sorry?"

"You look like someone dragged you through the dirt," he replied, taking in the whole of Harry with a sweep of his hands. "Mother would never let me walk around like that. It'd be a disgrace to the family name, you see. I've got Prewitt blood too from my mother's side. Weasley and Prewitt—nothing purer than that.

"No doubt I'll be sent to Gryffindor like my brothers," he continued, oblivious to Harry's growing irritation. "Where do you think you're going? Hufflepuff? You look the part."

He laughed at his own joke. Harry guessed it was only funny if you were a 'proper' wizard. Tonks was from Hufflepuff, and she seemed perfectly fine to him. That just made Harry dislike him more, which wasn't all that hard to tell the truth. Ron Weasley was the kind of person you made your mind about the moment you met him.

"Slytherin," said Harry simply, not know why he kept replying. "My lot is with Slytherin."

Ron recoiled from him distastefully. "Who'd want to wish that upon themselves? Slytherin's for dark wizards and liars. You a liar?"

Harry turned to give the boy a calm stare, which had Ron fidgeting in his place after a few seconds. He wondered what would happen if he walked up and hammered his fist into Ron Weasley's nose. Would they kick him out? Would he be punished somehow? Sent back to the Dursleys, perhaps.

It was doubtful anything serious would occur with Griphook in his corner, but he didn't hate the snotty kid enough to beat him. Perhaps, in time, he would come to learn such hate, but he felt nothing but pity at this point.

_Small people_, he told himself. _They're small people. Ignore them._

"Can we do this in a private room?" he asked the girl fitting his robes, his voice perfectly steady. "I'm bored of this child."

She barely masked a snort, somehow managing to pass it off as a cough. Ron flushed a bright pink and tried to form an adequate retort, but Harry was already gone by then. He could almost feel the boy's anger radiating through the wall at him, but he ignored it with ease. His insults hadn't even scratched the surface of Harry's hard shell, built to protect him from Vernon's foulest tantrums. Nothing could be worse than that.

"He deserved that, you know," said the girl shyly.

_Certainly did._

"The pureblood families don't care about anyone," she continued. "The Weasleys are the worst of all. They like to think they're royalty—don't care about anyone. I was in class with the second eldest at Hogwarts. Charlie Weasley. Dumped me the night after the two of us…you know."

She seemed to realize just in time that the direction of the conversation was entirely appropriate and smartly shut up. Harry was glad for it too. He didn't want to hear the sordid details of what went on between them, but she'd said enough to tell him who exactly the Weasleys were. Arrogant, proud and utterly reprehensible. He'd keep that in mind next he crossed paths with them.

He summoned Kreacher once they were done, who transported his eight sets of robes to Black Manor, which Harry could wait to visit once he was done here. It was all very fascinating, the ability to move from one place to another almost instantly, especially for someone who was just entering the wizarding world. Harry wondered whether he would be able to do that one day. Clearly, magic wasn't limited to those who held wands. In fact, house elves seemed to be doing just fine without them.

Harry donned the ninth set of robes in order to blend in with the crowds, and choose to discard his muggle appearance. They were pitch-black with dragon-leather underarms and gold embroidery along the collar. He wore a black undershirt and even black socks to match the outside and had no idea how much it cost, but he guessed it was more than he'd spent in his entire life.

Harry didn't bother buying a trunk and what not after Kreacher mumbled something about there being plenty of 'all that' back at the manor. He stopped briefly at the supply store and purchased what he had to from there—quills, brass scales and crystal phials—and followed it up with a visit to the cauldron store and picked himself one made of pewter. He considered buying a pet, but apparently he couldn't bring a snake along. If he _was_ going to get a pet, it would have to be a snake.

He could speak to snakes, after all.

All that remained at that point were his books and wand—the two things most integral to his future education. He slipped into the crowds once more and headed for Flourish and Blotts, intent on buying as many books as he had to understand the wizarding world and equip him with the tools necessary to stay secure—to stay strong.

* * *

Celestine Lestrange, scion of one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, made her way toward Flourish and Blotts, Hogwarts letter in hand. She was an only child, and really the only member of her direct family not rotting away in Azkaban, an achievement she believed worth some praise. Some would say her Lestrange blood doomed her to a life with dementors, but she wouldn't be defined by other people's opinions. Certainly not those who talked behind her back.

Pushing past the press of people by the entrance, Celestine slipped into Flourish and Blotts and let her eyes drift over the first years wandering about. They were a scrawny bunch if she'd ever seen any, nervous and absolutely oblivious. They 'oohed' and 'ahhed' at most absurd books and fiddled obsessively with their brand-new wands, each imaging themselves fighting off the Dark Lord in a battle worthy of Harry Potter himself.

_Harry Potter_, she thought with a quiet laugh. _How're they kidding?_

"There he is," said a voice she recognized quite well. "Standing there in the corner. See him?"

"The one in black?"

"That's the one."

There was a loud snort. "Doesn't look like much to me. Just a scrawny kid," said another. "You reckon we ought to teach him a lesson, coz? I could ruin that pretty face of his."

Celestine backed up slightly so they wouldn't see her, but listened intently to the ongoing conversation. She recognized Ron Weasly immediately from his red hair, and he had his Prewett cousins flanking him on either side, two brawny boys with more muscle that mind. They reminded her oddly of Draco's cronies, Crabbe and Goyle. Idiots, the lot of them.

"What'd he do you anyways?"

Ron looked livid at being questioned. "You're scared of him, mate?" he demanded. "Huh? Answer me."

"Nah, I ain't scared," muttered Rory Prewitt (smaller of the two). "But he looks like a Slytherin to me. You know how those guys are, always with a friend nearby. Think we should be careful?"

Ron Weasley laughed. "Friends? He's a Muggleborn," replied the boy. "Told me as much. Came into Madam Malkin's in torn clothes, looking mad, and went out wearing _that. _Where'd he even get the money? Said some things to me that weren't too kind, cousins. Insulted the Prewitt name too."

That seemed to do the trick.

"So what's the plan?" asked Prewitt No.2, Matthias. "Corner him outside? Give 'im a sound beating?"

Celestine had heard enough. She moved smoothly as she'd been taught to by her duel instructor and edged around the trio of first-class bullies. The boy they'd been talking about had his back to her, but he didn't look anything like a Muggleborn. He was too much at ease, unbothered by the oddness about him. You could recognize a Muggleborn from his open mouth and wide eyes, symptoms this boy wasn't showing.

He was dressed in well-fitted black robes that clearly didn't fit the image of a boy in torn clothes. What could have possibly have happened to him that he had to walk into Madam Malkin's looking like that?

_Probably took a trip to Knockturn Alley_, thought Celestine with a wry grin.

Instead of scrambling about like everyone else in the store, the boy in black perused the titles carefully, running his fingers over their spines as if could he absorb the knowledge by touch alone. There was an air of patience, poise and calm about him that was undoubtedly Slytherin, and he was focused so entirely on the task that he didn't react when Celestine came to a halt inches from his elbow.

"_Psst!_"

She expected a jump, or even a small jerk of alarm, but the boy just turned and looked at her with the most brittle eyes she'd ever seen. It was a cat-like stare, unwavering and flat—twin green opals gazing at her out of a cold and narrow face. She couldn't read anything off him but a faint sense of curiosity.

_He's Slytherin alright._

"Uhmm…" The words didn't come out.

_Are you tongue-tied,_ she demanded of herself?_ Oh, crap! You _are_ tongue-tied. What's wrong with you?_

An amused smile spread over his face. "Lost?" he asked, assuming that's why she was speechless. "I'm the last person to ask for directions. Raised by muggles."

She almost felt sorry for him. _Almost_. The Slytherins would make his life hell if he was ever sorted into their house. He didn't look like the kind to roll over and take it, but that made it so much worse. There were people just as tough as him in that house and many more times cruel. A Muggleborn in Slytherin—it would be the talk of Hogwarts.

"There're three boys here who want to beat you up," she blurted suddenly, finding her voice. "They're waiting for you to leave before they do it."

His smile didn't slip one bit, but his gaze intensified. She could see him questioning her motives, wondering why she would bother saying anything to him. Fact was, she recognized the expression on his face. She'd seen reflected in the mirror every time she looked at herself, etched permanently into her features.

Skepticism. Distrust. Doubt.

As if you couldn't trust the world to be honest with you.

"Don't believe me," she snapped, furious at his lack of reaction. "See if I care, mudblood."

_Mudblood_.

The word slipped free of her lips out without a thought, driven by anger. She honestly didn't care about blood purity, even though the Lestranges were ancient an pureblood family that was once considered more loyal to You-Know-Who than any other. Growing up amongst nobles had left her with some unsavory habits, one of which was calling people mudbloods when she really didn't mean it.

"I believe you," he said with quiet authority, looking away from her to return to the bookshelves. "They think they're smart, standing there as if I can't see them. Perhaps they're too stupid to realize I can or too arrogant to care. Sad thing is, I believe it's both."

She stopped mid-turn and looked back at him in surprise. "You already knew?"

"Of course," he replied as if it were only natural. "The Weasel followed me from Madam Malkin's. He could have tried hiding the fact, but I doubt that's possible with his hair."

Celestine almost snorted, but held herself back just in time. "It's Weasley, not Weasel. And don't let him hear you say that."

"I know what his name is," he replied, giving her another smile. Though, like the one before, it lacked mirth. It was just mask for him, as it was for her. Something to decorate his face with—to make him seem more human. "But I prefer Weasel. And you are?"

"Celestine," she said, offering a hand. "Celestine Lestrange."

A flash of recognition passed across his face, but it was gone too quickly for her to be sure. _Does he know my parents? How can he if he's a Muggleborn?_

She didn't think long about it when she saw the gold ring on his finger. She'd seen rings like that before—in fact, she had one of her own, which she wasn't allowed to wear until she reached majority. Celestine wanted nothing more than to twist his hand a get a good look at it, but she knew he'd take serious offence to that. He seemed like the kind who would smile at you until you gave him a reason not to; then he'd be an enemy worth watching out for.

"Dudley," he replied. "Dudley Dursley."

Celestine frowned at him. It was the worst name _ever_. It couldn't have been worse even if he'd tried. The strange boy had the Slytherin composure, the Slytherin coldness and even the Slytherin stoicism, but he seemed to lack a sufficiently Slytherin name.

"Dudley Dursley?" she asked slowly, trying not to burst into laughter at the absurdity of it. "Are you serious?"

"Muggles," he said, as if it explained everything. "What can I say?"

"Well, at least it's not Weasley."

He laughed. "At least it's not that," he agreed. "But thank you for warning me. I'll be sure to keep an eye on them."

Celestine bit her lip and wondered whether she should go. "You should take care…watch out, I mean," she said quickly. "They might not look like much, but they can be cruel. Especially to people of lowblood—not that you're of lowblood. I wouldn't know."

If he noticed her nervousness, he didn't say anything about it. "I can handle them, Ms. Lestrange."

She might have been impressed by his bravado if it weren't for the fact that she'd had many encounters with the Weasleys and Prewitts, particularly the Unsavory Trio, as she liked to call them. They held vendettas longer than most, and they considered themselves champions of Gryffindor just because their families had fought against You-Know-Who during war. The worst of it was, they hated Celestine because of who her parents were. It wouldn't have mattered if they didn't rub it in her face every time their paths crossed.

"Could I ask you a question?"

Celestine looked up at him, surprised at being addressed. She'd thought their conversation over. "Yes?"

"What's that on your arm?" he asked, pointing.

She wasn't sure what he meant until she drew back her sleeve and saw the leather device strapped to the inside of her right arm. "Oh. It's a wand holster."

"A wand holster?" he asked, interested.

Celestine twisted her wrist to demonstrate, and the wand jumped into her palm with lightning speed, ready for battle. She twisted again, and it returned to the holster with the same swiftness, summoned there by the holster's magic.

"It's for duelists and aurors," she replied. "You can buy one from Ollivander. They'll come in handy once you're at Hogwarts and have to fight off the Ron Weasley and his gang. Takes some getting used to, but it increases your draw-time tenfold."

He straightened slightly. "They let students fight at Hogwarts?"

She gave him a sly grin. "If you don't get caught, and if you do, they'll dock a few points from your house, and maybe you'll get a detention or two," she replied. "But almost no one gets expelled. Not unless you use dark magic or end up killing someone."

Dudley Dursley was nodding, and there was something behind that face. An edge of excitement—a thrill. She realized he wanted to fight, to test himself, and that raised her opinion of him by a notch. Celestine might have thought he was bound for Gryffindor is it weren't for the black streak she sensed in him—the scars of a difficult past. It was something she understood better than most.

He suddenly stuck his hand out. "I suppose I'll be on my way now, Ms. Lestrange," said the boy, bring their encounter to an abrupt end. "It was a pleasure meeting you, and I owe you for the warning. It helps that not everyone is obsessed with themselves."

Knowing it was best she buy her books as well, Celestine accepted the hand. "Watch out, Mr. Dursley," she replied. "There're far more people like the Weasley's out there. The wizarding world is one of sharks. They'll come for you if they sense weakness."

"Good thing I don't have many," he said, looking thoughtfully at her. "Goodbye, Ms. Lestrange."

He moved with a smooth gait, perfectly aware of his surroundings. He was used to watching his back, used to facing threats. She wondered what a Muggleborn would have had to worry about.

It was by far one of the oddest encounters of her life.

* * *

Albus Dumbledore kindly dismissed Tonks after she was done. He leaned back in his chair and considered her report.

She had described the boy as reserved and rather quiet, but observant nonetheless. Tonks had also noticed a recent bruise on his right cheek, one that she'd refrained from asking the boy about, afraid the questions would force him to withdraw. According to her, he had seemed oddly interested in Slytherin—asking her more about it than any other house.

Albus Dumbledore was not worried. He would have liked to know what passed between Griphook and Harry in their private meeting, but it was one to which Tonks had not been privy. The gist of it was known to Dumbledore, of course, but he wondered what more the boy might have found out behind closed doors.

The Headmaster of Hogwarts set aside his thoughts and reached for the next application waiting on his desk. The post of Defence Against the Dark Arts had yet to be filled, and the candidates for it were more than ever before. This next one seemed interesting, more so than the previous ones he'd had to read over.

Eleanor Vadyrn, a Durmstrang graduate and member of a Romanian noble family. One of the oldest in the country. He began reading, and with every next word his interest grew.

Author's Note: In the next chapter, Harry explores Black Manor and discovers interesting things. He also attempts to befriend a certain disgruntled house elf. Enjoy!


	6. Chapter 6: The Black Manor

Author's Note: Thanks for the reviews! If you like how the story is shaping up, please spread the word.

* * *

**Chapter Six**

**The Black Manor**

Harry James Black sat at the head of a grand dining table, drinking a cold glass of freshly squeezed orange juice while reading the front page of the _Daily Prophet_.

It was the largest newspaper agency in wizarding Britain with its offices in Diagon Alley, just around the corner from Gringotts. Unlike the best muggle newspapers, the _Daily Prophet_ seemed devoid of professional integrity. In fact, it reveled in debasing the famous and besmirching the name of any wizard or witch arrogant enough to aspire to something. A most noble endeavor, it seemed.

The paper had arrived ten minutes ago by owl, precisely at 6:30 a.m., as it had these past four days. Four days of paradise, in Harry's opinion. He was the master of a sprawling manor, with three house elves at his disposal and more rooms to sleep in than he knew what to do. He was waiting for Vernon to wake him up from the dream and beat him senseless for every having hoped such a fantasy could exist.

Harry set aside his worries and returned to the newspaper, his eyes settling on the byline of the largest article, dead center of the front page. Rita Skeeter, the voice of the _Daily Prophet_.

"Kreacher," he said loudly.

…

Nothing happened.

Harry sighed and set aside his orange juice. "Kreacher."

…

No one appeared…no flashes of light…a silence that shouldn't have been.

"Kreacher," he said again, forcefully. "As master, I demand your immediate presence."

The air rippled with magic and the sour house-elf appeared a few seconds later. Save for the grimy rag tied like a loincloth around his middle, Kreacher was completely naked. He was wrinkled all over, no doubt because he was a ratty old beast. His skin hung on him like Dudley's shirts did on Harry—one size too big—and gathered flabbily at his waist, a belt of loose flesh. His batlike ears twitched every so often, and his bloodshot eyes kept rolling back into his head as if he was trying to knock himself out by the sheer force of it.

Harry had tried very hard not to dislike the sour house-elf, but it was a task he found unbelievably challenging. Kreacher went out his way to torment Harry; even the other house-elves—Minny and Tick—didn't like him all that much. They stayed out of Kreacher's way, leaving him to wallow alone in his misery.

"Scum who calls himself master," spoke Kreacher, bearing a line of pointed teeth, "how may I serve you?"

That was just one of his greetings. There were more—many more, some not suited to the ears of an eleven-year-old. Harry had heard worse from Vernon, so it washed over him without effect.

"I was hoping to make use of your abundant knowledge, Kreacher," he replied, putting on a warm smile, or one that he hoped was warm. "I have a question or two for you."

"Scum thinks praise will work," said the house-elf disgustedly. "But I have no choice but to obey. I am master's slave."

Harry really wasn't up for a repeat performance of the previous day's breakfast where Kreacher ended up tugging on his ears and jerking his head back with maddening eye-rolls. He went straight to the matter, knowing it was best not to antagonize the ancient house-elf.

"What can you tell me about Rita Skeeter?" he asked, tapping the newspaper. "She always seems to be writing an article on someone or another. Wrote one about me today. Right on the front page, believe it or not."

Kreacher gave him a bored look. "Rita Skeeter woman works for the newspaper."

Harry waited.

Kreacher rolled his left eye.

"And?"

Kreacher started tugging on his ears.

"That's it?" he asked. "You're not going to tell me anything else?"

Kreacher rolled both his eyes and muttered a string of curses under his breath.

"Oh, for god's sake," snapped Harry. "You're dismissed!"

The house-elf sneered at him and vanished without a sound, leaving Harry alone. He sighed and leaned back, launching into Rita Skeeter's article.

**Harry Potter Returns, Changes Name**

_July 20__th__ was a day like any other at Diagon Alley. The crowds were out, the Leaky Cauldron crowded with drunken witches and wizard, and hundreds of students rushed the streets in preparation for yet another year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. What most did not know, however, was that Harry Potter (The-Boy-Who-Lived) was walking amongst them, cloaked in an immaculate disguise to hide his identity._

_ On that fateful Halloween night ten years ago, Lily and James Potter were killed by the Dark Lord after a betrayal close to home brought You-Know-Who to their doorstep. In his signature manner, the Dark Lord—having murdered the Potters—proceeded to where little Harry slept in his cot, unaware that the most evil wizard of all time stood not feet from him. We all know what happened next; the Dark Lord died. _

_And The-Boy-Who-Lived was born._

_Spotted first at the Leaky Cauldron in the company of Nymphadora Tonks—junior auror—The-Boy-Who-Lived was met by crowd of admirers who had likely waited years to make the acquaintance of their hero. Unknown to them, Harry Potter was on his way to Gringotts. But he had no intention of visiting his vault. Harry Potter was there to betray his parents, much like Sirius Black betrayed them years before. In a twist that could only be imagined by Albus Dumbledore's addled mind, Harry Potter (savior; hero; idol) abandoned the Potter name and assumed that of his nemesis: Black._

_ Harry James Potter is dead._

_ Harry James Black is all that remains._

_ Speculation is abound in the wizarding world as gossip spreads through the streets. Molly Weasley—of the noble Weasley family and blood of the Prewitts—is worried about her son's well-being. Young Ron Weasley will be attending Hogwarts in the same year as Harry James Black, as will many other wizarding children._

_ "I think I speak for everyone when I say we should be concerned," said Molly Weasley, an outspoken and brilliant witch. "This is the boy who defeated the Dark Lord. Who knows what he's capable of? And now this latest stunt, taking on the Black name. We must ask the important question: can Harry Potter be trusted?"_

_ There is a definite ring of truth to her words, and I believe it is time we abandoned the long held image an innocent young boy and consider this objectively and logically—_

Harry tossed the newspaper away with a low growl. He was lucky they hadn't managed to snap a photo of him, or he might have appeared with horns and a tail—the devil incarnate. Reporters from the _Daily Prophet _had tried to reach him several times already, but Griphook had communicated express instructions not to speak with anyone. Harry went as far as to avoid the windows, afraid they would manage to steal a shot of him and plaster it everywhere for people to see.

There was still a month left until the beginning of his first term at Hogwarts, and he wanted to spend it reading his course books and exploring Black Manor, not worrying about Rita Skeeter—lowest of the low. Studying his first year syllabus was proving remarkably more interesting than he'd imagined it would be. Harry had already read through his potions book, understanding the underlining concepts and popular theories, although he'd had no chance to brew anything yet. Not that he was inclined to without someone around to save him if matters went awry.

Defense Against the Dark Arts was turning out to be far more difficult to learn than Potions, despite the fact that he was more interested in it than any other subject. Almost all of it had to do with advanced spellwork, which required the use of a wand. Ollivander had been very clear on that: he couldn't, under any circumstances, do spells outside of Hogwarts. Not unless he wanted to be expelled and have his wand snapped in half for underage use of magic. As it was, Harry had occupied his time reading up on all the dark wizards of recent history as well their counterparts, of which Albus Dumbledore seemed to be the primary candidate

There was John Blackthorn of early to mid-1800s, a student of the dark arts who'd gained such mastery over the magic of the mind that he'd commanded the obedience of hundreds of wizards, all through the use of the Imperius Curse. Apparently, it granted the caster complete control over the victim. _Complete_ control.

_ No wonder it's an Unforgivable Curse, _he thought. _I could cast an Imperius Curse on Dudley and make him kill Vernon and then himself. Murder-suicide. The police would never be able to figure it out._

_ But the aurors would, _replied the more rational part of him. _They have their ways. They must, if they want to remain hidden from the rest of the world. Wizards can't just go around using spells on muggles_. _You wouldn't last a day on the run from them._

John Blackthorn had finally fallen when he performed the Imperius Curse one too many times. His own lieutenant was the first to break free, killing Blackthorn and thus liberating a mass of wizards, including many members of the Wizengamot. The frightening extent of his compulsion had been a wake-up call to the Ministry of Magic and had resulted in a substantial increase in funding for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement (DMLE).

Queue World War II and the rise of Gellert Grindelwald, prodigal wizard and student of the dark arts. A champion of blood purists and the noble wizarding families, Grindelwald had used Hitler to spread his reign of terror over most of Europe. It was finally Albus Dumbledore's quintessential battle of good vs. bad that finally toppled Grindelwald at the very height of his power, bringing down much of Nazi Germany along with him. The dark wizard had been sent to the not-so impenetrable prison of Nurmengard to live out his years, from which he'd recently escaped by some mysterious means.

The jury was still out on how he'd managed it.

Dumbledore's defeat of Grindelwald, coupled with many victories over lesser dark wizards, established him as a force of light. Leader of the fight against darkness. If ever anyone had doubted the man's ability, they could no longer do so without facing ridicule. In the eyes of the public (except Rita Skeeter), he was without fault or weakness. It had secured him a place in history as well the positions of Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and Supreme Mugwump of the International Federation of Wizards.

Needless to say, Albus Dumbledore was the singularly most powerful wizard alive.

Finally, and most recently, there was Voldemort. Curiously, his rise to power wasn't as well documented as the others. The books barely said anything at all beyond a brief explanation, which was either due to the Ministry suppressing information or just ignorance on the part of the wizarding world. Nevertheless, from what Harry could tell, Dumbledore had been fighting a losing battle toward the end, with Voldemort's Death Eater's rising in force and openly defying the Ministry.

If it hadn't been for the Dark Lord's abrupt death ten years before…Harry didn't want to think about that. Anarchy and terror were just two choice words he would've used to describe the scenario.

However, Harry was far more interested in dueling than he was in the history of dark wizards. Harry had initially imagined it to be nothing more than two wizards going at each other, firing off random spells, but it seemed the most proficient fighters spent a lifetime perfecting the art. It was a combination of complex katas designed to enhance the efficiency of a fighter's movements and magical prowess to equip him with a suitable arsenal. There were a hundred different ways to defend oneself, both physical and magical. The strength necessary to move quickly and fight over prolonged periods of time took months to develop and required extreme dedication, which was why dueling wasn't taught until quite later in a wizard's education.

Dueling was a martial art, pure and simple. It was anything but two wizards drawing their wands and going at each other until one made a mistake. Dueling required form, discipline, patience and skill, something very few wizards possessed. Harry wondered whether he had it in him to become a master.

He'd taken Celestine Lestrange's advice, the violet-eyed young witch he met at Flourish and Blotts, and purchased a holster from Ollivander. A single twist of his wrist delivered the 13 ½ inch wand straight to his grip while a second returned it safely under his sleeve. Harry imagined it would a handy tool in a fight, if ever the need arose to use it. Undoubtedly it would, with people like Ron Weasley out to get him.

Celestine had shown him rare kindness in Diagon Alley, even though she'd put herself at risk by going against the Weasley boy. Harry knew, of course, that she was the daughter of Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange—Death Eaters incarcerated at Azkaban for torturing Frank and Alice Longbottom. Griphook has told him everything over the Floo. It appeared that, much like him, she was attempting to escape a past she had absolutely nothing to do with. Harry understood how difficult that could be, especially with people like Rita Skeeter out there.

He almost felt guilty giving her a fake name.

Coming out of his daydream, Harry eyed the newspaper lying on the dining table with a particularly distasteful edge to his gaze. Griphook had advised him not to speak to the reporters, but Harry was tempted to explain himself. To justify changing his name. He might have gone forward with it if he wasn't sure they would twist his words and make him seem petty and weak—a traitor to the Potter name.

Harry wondered what his siblings thought about that.

Did they hate him?

Did they believe Rita Skeeter?

Did they have a right to judge him?

_Enough_, he told himself. _Don't think about that right now. You have enough on your plate._

Harry pushed his breakfast away and stood up, looking over the majestically decorated dining room. He walked over the fireplace and depressed a hidden panel above the mantelpiece. The sound of grinding stone filled the chamber, and the nearby wall slid aside to reveal a narrow passageway hidden in shadows.

Harry had discovered it on his second day at Black Manor after noticing a slight bulge in the wall. There were two more he'd found, one in the kitchen and one behind a suit of armor in the entrance hall. Apparently, the manor was scattered with all kinds of secrets, and it came as no surprise considering it had once been the chief residence of a wealthy wizarding family. Even so, Harry wondered what else was hidden in the walls and in between the rooms, beyond sight and unknown to anyone. Dead bodies perhaps?

Exploring Black Manor had been as interesting as his studies. The library alone was the size of the Dursley home, with thousands of books on every subject—most of which Harry struggled to understand. Some books he couldn't even open. They'd been sealed by magic, and all attempts to reveal their secrets had ultimately failed. Good thing too, since they likely contained knowledge of dark magic in them.

As soon as Harry stepped through the carved entrance, the torches along the passageway flared to life, radiating dim yellow over the roughhewn stone walls. Ten paces in, he found a steep staircase that took him straight to the second landing, where Sirius and Regulus Black's old rooms were located.

He'd had enough suspense.

Today was the day he went inside.

Ever since he arrived at Black Manor, Harry had wanted nothing more than to ease open the doors to their rooms and search the musty interiors to get a sense of the men who'd allied themselves with Voldemort. But he'd felt oddly like a trespasser, though it made little sense. He owned _everything_, after all. At one point, Harry had almost given into temptation and entered Regulus's room, but Kreacher had appeared in front of him, screaming like a banshee on drugs.

He'd had no choice but to retreat.

This time was different. He wouldn't hold back.

There were only two doors in the corridor. The one facing him bore a nameplate reading _Sirius_. Harry found his palms were sweaty at the prospect of entering the traitor's room. He twisted the door knob and he allowed the door to drift open, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness within. The room was both broad and long, and the floor was covered in a soft carpet that muffled his footfalls.

A large bed with an empty portrait above it decorated the corner, and a wall length window hidden by long silken curtains stood opposite it. Harry walked over and pulled the curtains open, allowing bright rays of sunlight to stream into the room, glittering off the dust that hung in the air. A thick layer of it covered the photos on the walls and the bedside table; spiders webs stretched between the ceiling and the walls, and as Harry moved deeper into the room, he heard a scurrying of disturbed mice.

Sirius had adorned the walls with posters and pictures, leaving very little of the original backdrop visible. The way everything seemed to be in the place it was supposed to be obviously meant no one had interfered with the room. This much dust took years to gather, not just months or days. No house-elves, not even Kreacher, had entered.

There were several large Gryffindor banners, faded scarlet and gold. Harry stood frozen in his place, staring at them in astonishment. For some reason, he'd assumed Sirius would be from Slytherin, where Harry expected to be placed. From what he had read, Slytherin was the default for all dark wizards and Death Eaters. The books seemed to extol those from Gryffindor, portraying them as brave and incorruptible heroes. To see the Gryffindor colors in the room of a man who'd not only sided with Voldemort but also betrayed his best friend was oddly relieving.

It meant Harry wasn't destined to be dark if he went to Slytherin, just as he wasn't destined to be good if he went to Gryffindor. The houses might define who the student _was_, but they didn't define who the student _would be_. No one could possibly unravel the way a human mind worked and determine where they belonged simply from looking at them when they were eleven-years-old. Now that he thought about it seriously, it was almost preposterous that he'd been worried to begin with.

Harry turned away from the banners and browsed the posters of motorcycles and girls in skimpy bikinis (at which he stared for longer than necessary). Harry could tell they were Muggles because they remained quite stationary within their pictures, faded smiles and glazed eyes frozen on the paper. There was, in fact, only one Wizarding photograph on the walls, a picture of four Hogwarts students standing arm in arm, laughing at the camera.

Harry lurched forward and snatched the frame off the wall. He held it so close to his nose that his breath misted against the glass. Two of the people he didn't recognize at all. One was tall and rather shabby, with dark shadows under his eyes. He had intelligent eyes and a lazy smile. The other was short and slightly chubby, with beady black eyes and a rat-like grin.

Then there were the remaining two. Harry easily recognized Sirius Black because of the resemblance he bore to the portraits all around Black Manor. Dark haired and handsome, with a hooked nose and bright, merry eyes. He had his arm thrown over another boy's shoulder, a boy who looked remarkably like Harry—except for the eyes.

James Potter.

Harry shut his eyes for a moment and opened them again.

He traced his father's face with his fingers, oblivious to the fact that he'd sunk down on the bed. It was the first time he'd seen a picture of his father, and the resemblance was uncanny. They all seemed so…close. So happy, unlike Harry had ever had the pleasure of feeling. What would make friends turn against each other when they had something like this?

Harry's nails grappled with frame, tearing the photo free. He folded it in half and stuffed it into his robes, unwilling to leave behind the only photo of his father he would likely ever come across.

In short order, Harry began tearing apart the room, hoping to find something of his father's there. He looked in every drawer and in between the pages of every book, praying for something. He eventually arrived at the dresser, and his quick search produced a large, square, very worn piece of parchment with nothing written on it. It was clearly old, but it seemed undamaged, without frayed edges or torn parts.

Attached to it was a small note written in cursive.

_Tap once and say, "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."_

_Tap again and say, "Mischief managed."_

_Enjoy._

Harry set the note aside and unraveled the parchment, looking over it with a frown. There was nothing written on any of the pages, but it was put together in an odd, layered fashion, almost as if it had a specific purpose, one which Harry couldn't fathom.

He considered it with mounting impatience, intent on producing some result. He was disappointed he hadn't found anything of his father's and wasn't planning on giving up until he understood the parchment, which had some secret purpose he would eventually unravel.

Dropping down on Sirius's bed once more, Harry read the note again.

_Tap once and say, "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."_

_Tap again and say, "Mischief managed."_

_Enjoy._

Harry tapped the parchment with his finger. "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

The parchment just sat there, blank and uninteresting. Not that he expected anything to happen. He'd hoped, certainly, but not expected. It was absurd to think a tap and a few words would do anything.

Unless…

Unless…it was magic.

Harry twisted his wrist, releasing the wand. It jumped into his hand smoothly, and he tapped the parchment again. Just before he said the words, he stopped and considered the ramifications. Could this be classified as underage magic? If so, it would potentially result in his expulsion. He doubted the punishment would be as harsh as that for a first-timer, but the risk still existed.

_If saying random sentences with a wand in your hand in considered magic, then almost everyone would be expelled by now_, thought Harry. _You won't know unless you try._

"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

He held his breath.

For a second, it remained blank. Then thin ink lines began to spread outward like a spider's web from the point Harry's wand had touched the parchment. They flowed into each other, they crisscrossed and overlapped, they fanned into every corner of the parchment, racing beyond sight; then words began to blossom across the top, great, curly green words, that proclaimed:

_Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers are proud to present THE MARAUDER'S MAP._

Harry unraveled the parchment bit by tiny bit—prying it apart delicately as if it would crumble in his grip if he rushed. He kept going until he reached one of the corners where, in bold thick letters, was written: _Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_. Every part of the parchment was labeled in tiny but easily illegible words. The great hall was marked on one part and the dungeons on another, and there were dozens upon dozens of classrooms and many floors, each arranged in an orderly fashion.

He could tell a great deal of care had gone into its making.

What dominated his attention, however, were the tiny inky footsteps that made their way along the corridors. People—moving. People moving in real-time. One in particular made him start with alarm. _Professor McGonagall_, read the map, following the movements of the person inside a room. He recognized the name from his meeting with Griphook. She was the woman who'd supposedly adopted Rose after their parents died.

She was there, in Hogwarts, and Harry could see her. He was reasonably sure he wasn't allowed to have a map this powerful in his possession. He would know where _everyone _was at any time of the day; he could follow them around the castle; he could keep a watch on _everything._ The uses of such a tool were…limitless.

"Who are you?"

Harry screamed and jumped to his feet, dropping the map to the carpet. Immediately, the ink faded, leaving it a dull parchment once more. Harry turned swiftly to confront the intruder, but found the room absolutely empty—door ajar and no one in sight.

"Over here, you fool."

Harry almost screamed again and twisted around, confronting the once-empty portrait above the bed. Where before there had been nothing but a black spot now stood an elegant looking wizard with a sharp beard and annoyed expression. He was clad in green dress robes, frills and all, and had the Black family look about him. Most likely he was long dead too.

Harry let out a relieved breath as his fear bled away. "And who are you?"

"Who am I_?_" repeated the man slowly, almost as if he didn't understand the question.

"I believe that's what I asked," snapped Harry, irritated at being surprised. "This is, after all, my home. I can ask whatever I like."

"Who are you?" demanded the man in portrait in return, clearly unwilling to submit. "What are you doing in my home?"

Harry had burned the last reserves of his patience on the _Daily Prophet_ article, and he wasn't about to spend his time arguing with a portrait that had no consciousness beyond that which had been imparted on it by a clever spell.

He walked forward briskly and pried the portrait off the wall, or at least he tried to. It was stuck fast—didn't budge a single inch. He tried again, but the edges dug painfully into his fingers.

"What the—?"

"Trying to remove me, boy?" asked the man with a haughty smile. "Generations of better wizards than you have tried and failed to have me disposed of. I am a permanent fixture in this house. You cannot be rid of me!"

Harry released his grip on the portrait and threw his hands up in frustration. "Maybe I can't take you off," he replied through gritted, "but I sure as hell can just walk out of here and ignore you."

He retrieved the Marauder's Map from where it had fallen and deliberately strode toward the door, only to be stopped by the man once more.

"No, do not leave," he said, the abrasiveness in his tone lessening somewhat. "I am merely curious, child. Who are you? A descendant of mine? It has been many years since any wizard graced these empty halls."

Harry sighed and returned to the foot of the bed. "Harry James Black," he said, nodding in greeting. "And I won't know if I'm a descendant unless you tell me who you are."

The man drew himself up. "Phineas Nigellus Black, once Headmaster of Hogwarts."

Harry recognized the name. Griphook had been kind enough to send over the Black family tree Gringotts had on file. Phineas Nigellus Black had been alive during the 1800s, patriarch of the Black family at the time. There had been some mention about him being the worst Headmaster in the history of Hogwarts, a truly pathetic administrator who had sent Hogwarts into a veritable dark age of education.

"I know who you are you," replied Harry. "And yes, I _am_ a descendant."

It wasn't a lie. He was. He'd been surprised to discover his distant link to the Hogwarts Headmaster.

"By what way are you my blood?" questioned the man.

Harry racked his mind for details. He had an excellent memory, and he remembered almost every detail of the family tree. "Your son, Cygnus Black, had a daughter named Dorea Black. She was my great, grandmother."

Phineas assumed an imperious posture, staring at Harry down the length of his nose. "So you are not truly a Black then, since she married outside the family?"

Harry grinned at him. "I. Am. The. O_nly._ Black," he replied coldly, enunciating each word. "At least the only Black who matters. Which means this house, and everything else, is mine. Including you. So if I want you removed, I can have you removed."

He didn't give the man a chance to reply. Harry heard him mutter a curse before he closed the door, and then there was silence. Gathering a deep breath, Harry slipped the Marauder's Map into one of his larger pockets and patted it to make sure it was safe. The map would help him when he was at Hogwarts. Something like that would definitely be useful if he wanted to keep an eye on his enemies.

Harry glanced across the hall at Regulus's room and took a deliberate step toward it. Almost immediately, Kreacher appeared in front of him, arms spread and eyes wide in panic.

"Scum will not enter—!"

"As your master," shouted Harry, raising his voice above the house-elf's, "I order you to return to the kitchens and wait for me there!"

Kreacher disappeared with a pained cry, unable to resist the compulsion to obey

_He deserved that_, rationalized Harry as guilt burned through him. _He really did. I've been nothing but kind_. _He just won't listen to reason_.

When he twisted the knob to Regulus's room, the door didn't budge. It was locked. Harry drew out the Master Key and slid it smoothly into the keyhole, and the door immediately opened when he pushed. It made matters so much easier; wizards were truly efficient people.

Regulus's bedroom was slightly smaller than Sirius's, though it had the same sense of grandeur as the rest of the manor. Whereas Sirius had decorated his room with bright colors and lively themes, Regulus had clearly strived to achieve an opposite effect, and succeeded in doing so. The Slytherin colors of emerald and silver were everywhere, draping the bed, the walls, and the windows. The Black family crest was painstakingly painted over the bed, along with its motto, _toujours pur_. Beneath this was a collection of yellow newspaper cuttings, all stuck together to make a ragged collage.

Harry crossed the room to examine them.

They were off Voldemort. No surprise there. Fanboy.

Regulus's room was far more interesting than Sirius's had been. There were all manner of objects scattered about, some of which he was afraid to touch simply because he felt a certain danger radiating off them. Much as he'd done in the other room, Harry combed every inch of Regulus's drawers and wardrobe.

And then he found the locket.

It was heavy with a gold chain. A serpentine S glittered on the front in glittering green stone inlay. If Harry squinted his eyes, it almost looked like a snake. The locket was clearly worth a great deal—it looked ancient. It had a distinct Slytherin air; the S was a dead giveaway. Without thinking about it, Harry slipped the chain over his head and hid the locket under his shirt, letting it settle against the bare skin of his chest. Surprisingly, it was warm rather than cold.

_It's mine_, he said to himself, trying not to feel like a theif. _It's mine_.

He searched the room for a while longer, but it turned up nothing as interesting as the map or locket. Harry left feeling oddly light, as if a weight had been lifted off his chest. He'd searched the rooms of two former followers of the Dark Lord, and he'd discovered they were humans like anybody else.

They might have become monsters, but that was there choice.

Once, however, they were like him. Just ordinary people.

* * *

"Albus!"

Dumbledore whistled a low tune, idly sipping a warm cup of tea. The tune was a rendition of the Hob Goblins' latest song, something about a witch who played with one too many wands. Beside him on the desk lay a copy of the most recent issue of the _Daily Prophet_, Rita Skeeter's article on the front page. It was just the beginning of what he expected would be a lengthy smear campaign.

"Albus Dumbledore!"

The current Headmaster of Hogwarts looked up at the line of portraits along the right hand wall of his office. Phineas Nigellus Black stood in his frame, a rare sight, looking as furious as ever and perhaps even a little worried. Worry was not often associated with Phineas.

"How can I help you, my old friend?" he asked with a twinkle in his eyes, knowing very well what this was about. In fact, he'd expected a visit sooner than today.

"I have just come from Black Manor," replied the former Headmaster. "I had the displeasure of meeting a boy there who claimed to be the sole heir of the Black family! What nonsense!"

Dumbledore nodded in time with words, saying nothing.

"He threatened to have my portrait taken down! Mine!"

The other Headmasters laughed, enjoying the rare moment.

"What would like me to do about it, Phineas?" he asked. "I'm only the Headmaster of Hogwarts."

The Black patriarch stepped forward, growing slightly in his frame. "Have him expelled, of course. Teach the boy some manners."

Albus Dumbledore returned to his tea, still smiling.

This was turning out to be an interesting year.

* * *

Author's Note: In the next chapter, Harry sets out for Hogwarts, excited to begin his new life as a wizard while trying desperately to ignore public sentiment.


	7. Interlude: Eleanor Vadyrn

Author's Note: Interludes will play an important role in the story. They detail events outside of Harry's immediate vicinity of influence but which are nonetheless integral to the story. Hope you like it.

* * *

**Interlude**

**Eleanor Vadyrn**

The Headmaster of Hogwarts had read all there was to know about Eleanor Vadyrn, and he was more interested in what was missing from her application than what had actually been included.

The prospective Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher was great deal more fascinating than what her file claimed, a conclusion at which he had arrived from the vast void of information and missing years that were unaccounted for in her report. It was an obvious attempt by her to conceal details of her past, but she had to have known Dumbledore would see through such a blatant attempt at subversion. Whoever the woman was, she was playing a dangerous and complex game.

It was why he had asked for an interview.

And she was due to arrive in three…two…one—

There was a knock on his door.

"Enter," said Dumbledore.

The door opened and in stepped a raven-haired woman. She was tall and slender, with piercing black eyes that never wavered from his. Her gait was smooth and efficient, and she had bound her hair tightly behind her head so as not to mar her vision if she was forced to fight. Every inch of her bespoke battle-readiness, a will to strike down any who would stand in her way.

Dumbledore knew her kind well. One of his oldest friends, Alastor Moody, exuded a similar air of danger, as did the majority of veteran aurors who had not only fought true evil, but taken lives in the process. It was the mark of a born fighter—not merely someone who had learned about battle from history books and the accounts of others.

She was a woman worth fearing.

The Headmaster stood smoothly and gave her one of his famous smiles. "Mrs. Vadyrn. Please, come in."

She nodded but didn't return his smile. Nor did she offer any words of greeting as she moved deeper into his office and assumed the indicated seat. Before she settled in, he noticed her eyes flick across the room, mapping out the possible escape routes and points of ambush. It was what anyone trained in survival would do.

It made Dumbledore wonder what had required her to learn such arts.

"Would you care for a sherbet lemon?" he asked, offering her a glass bowl.

The woman frowned at him before eyeing the sweets. She drew her wand in the blink of an eye and murmured a dozen or so spells without pausing to draw a breath. When she was satisfied there were no poisons or enchantments of any kind, she popped one of the sweets into her mouth and crushed it between her molars with a loud _crunch_.

"They're my favorite," commented Dumbledore, rolling one over his tongue. "I always keep a bowl in the hopes that someone will share my sentiment. I have yet to find anyone with an equal love as mine."

Eleanor Vadyrn licked her lips and leaned back. "Am I to assume I have been hired for the post," she asked in a husky voice, deciding not to engage in small talk, "or is this a meeting to gauge my abilities?"

Right to business, then.

The Headmaster waved his hand amiably. "I have no doubt as to your abilities, Mrs. Vadyrn," he replied. "In fact, I have spoken to your many teachers over the years, those of whom you learned from _after_ leaving Durmstrang fourteen years ago. Dashgar the Blind spoke most highly of your warding skills, going as far as to claim you were greater than any student he had ever taught, even Lord Voldemort."

She did not react to the Dark Lord's name. Not even the slightest twitch. "It's true; I was better," said Eleanor Vadyrn without artifice or pride. "But I suggest you ask the questions you want to, Headmaster. I don't take pleasure in bandying words, especially not with a master of manipulation such as you."

Dumbledore smiled. "Ah, the truth then," he murmured quietly. "It's certainly refreshing to set aside the games. Once you have done it for as long as I, the twists and turns lose their charm. All I want is honesty, so I will ask you the important questions and leave the rest as a mystery. Hopefully, you'll surprise me. It's been a while since I was surprised."

The woman inclined her head.

"There are four years missing from your record," he stated, rifling the pages of her application. "I have spoken to those who claim to know you, but I have received nothing but vague answers. What did you do in that time?"

"I traveled."

"Four years of travel?"

Eleanor Vadyrn relaxed. "After teaching for a while at Durmstrang, I set out on foot toward the east, letting the road guide my path," she said. "I traveled across Europe and followed the Silk Route across Central Asia until I arrived in China. Along the way, I stopped occasionally when I sensed the presence of a powerful wizard or witch. I learned from them what I could of magical lore before continuing along my path.

"Eventually, I found myself on the shores of Japan," she continued, "from where I finally returned to my homeland of Romania. Four years, Headmaster. If you wish, I could detail every part of my journey, but we would be here for many more hours."

Dumbledore nodded. "There will be no need for that," he said. "I don't suppose you would be willing to open your mind to me? It would be far easier that way."

This drew a cold smile from her. "You know better than to ask, Headmaster," she replied. "However, I would be willing to do so if you, in turn, opened your mind to me."

"Let's forget I asked."

She laughed. "Forgotten, Headmaster. Forgotten."

Dumbledore considered the file for a moment before looking at her shrewdly. His question was sudden and without warning. "Are you a student of the dark, Mrs. Vadyrn?"

"Your question is incredibly vague, as you well know."

"Very well," he replied. "Have you studied and learned the dark arts?"

The woman shrugged. "Yes, I have."

"And are you a servant of the darkness?"

"If I was a servant of the darkness, Headmaster, you would have already separated the soul from my body and unraveled the very fabric of my creation," she answered calmly. "But I understand if you want to hear the answer from my own mouth. I have studied the dark arts, but I have held back the temptation to give it my mind. Nor do I ever intend to succumb to that evil. But I believe it is necessary for one to know the darkness before one can battle it, no? For that reason, I have spent years learning its ways. You of all must agree with me."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with mischief. "And why would I agree, Mrs. Vadyrn? I am the champion of the light."

"You are a great wizard, certainly, but not so great that you would be able to defeat Gellert Grindelwald and fight Voldemort on equal footing unless you had a personal understanding of the nature of evil," she replied. "The taint upon you is very slight, but I see it nonetheless. All great wizards have dabbled in the dark arts at some point, even the founding fathers of this ancient school."

The Headmaster said nothing to confirm her words, but his silence was enough for her. He set aside the file that had occupied his desk since the early hours of morning and contemplated the powerful witch sitting opposite him.

"I must ask one final question, and if you answer does not satisfy me I will ask you to leave and never return to Britain," said Dumbledore, the lightness gone from his tone. "The students of this school are of paramount importance. Their protection is a sacred and ancient duty to which I have given my life. If you have come here with the intent to harm Hogwarts or its occupants, my wrath shall follow you unto the very ends of this Earth and I will show you no mercy."

The weight of his magic settled on the woman, and her back stiffened against the strain of staying conscious. His power was thick haze between them, invisible to the naked eye but easily discernable to wizards of their caliber. It was a signature of sorts, a testament to one's resolve.

Eleanor Vadyrn gathered a deep breath. "Will my oath suffice, Headmaster?" she asked evenly. "I am willing to swear upon my magic to defend Hogwarts in the dark times to come and to equip its students with the tools necessary to halt the march of darkness. Gellert Grindelwald is free, but we both know there is a more terrible force rising from the abyss. It is against all these evils that I swear to defend Hogwarts, even should the cost of such a burden be my life."

Very slowly, Albus Dumbledore nodded his head. "September 1st, Professor Vadyrn. Do not be late."


	8. Chapter 7: The Hogwarts Express

Author's Note: Another chapter done. I wrote this in a hurry, so forgive me if there're too many mistakes. I tried to correct as many as I could. I may slow down with the updates a little since I'm still planning to story and I don't want to get too far in without a definite plot.

* * *

**Seven**

**The Hogwarts Express**

Celestine Lestrange watched the sea of colors undulate on Platform Nine and Three Quarters. Gryffindor's crimson and gold rushed into a tide of Slytherin silver and green, tinged with a touch of Ravenclaw blue to top it off and a smatter of Hufflepuff yellow and black along the edges. It all came together in a giant blend of milling figures, chaotic and full of excitement—charged with magic and eager minds ready to learn.

And in the midst of it all stood Dudley Dursley. She hadn't seen him since their encounter at Flourish and Blotts, but the moment she'd entered her compartment on the _Hogwarts Express_ and taken a seat by the window, her eyes had settled on the green-eyed boy.

He stood amongst them and yet entirely apart, with the current of students and parents flowing around him without effect. He didn't fidget or wander about aimlessly like a clueless Muggleborn seeking safety away from the crowd, but rather absorbed his surroundings with a discerning gaze, taking in all of it without ever focusing on anything particular. He was patient and mechanical, detached from emotion.

Dudley really _was _a Slytherin.

Twice now his eyes had darted to where Ron Weasley and the Prewitt cousins stood watching him in what they thought was a discreet fashion. But their observation could not have been more obvious. Dudley's glances in their direction lasted less than a second, but Celestine was sure he'd noted their tenseness—their eagerness to fight. It meant one of two things: either he had escaped their wrath after leaving Flourish and Blotts or he had managed to beat them somehow, which she highly doubted was possible—at least not alone.

And he was definitely alone.

Except…now that she looked more closely, she realized he had company. His large trunk floated several inches in the air behind him, levitated above the ground by an ancient house-elf, one that she would recognize anywhere.

Kreacher, the Black family's servant.

Celestine knew she was missing something. It was right there on the edge of her mind. A link she hadn't made yet, but one that would shock her once she did. It was almost as if she didn't want to reach the conclusion that was staring her right in the face.

_Why does he have Kreacher with him?_

He didn't look at all like an ignorant Muggleborn fresh to the wizarding world. His robes were immaculate, his stance relaxed and confident, and there was just a slight twist to his lips that bespoke Slytherin cunning. If she hadn't known better, Celestine would have assumed he belonged to one of the noble families, or at least an ancient pureblood clan. She might even have envied him a little—just a little.

She was distracted from her quiet observation when the door to the compartment slid open and a bushy-haired girl walked in, dragging her trunk after her. Celestine watched with a flat stare as the girl prodded and pushed the trunk under the seat, panting slightly from the exertion. When she was done, she looked up at Celestine and seemed taken aback as if she'd just noticed there was someone else there.

"Those seats are taken."

The girl glanced around, saw there were no other trunks in sight, and then turned back. "It doesn't seem like it."

"Well they are. You can't sit here."

She shrugged her shoulders and dropped down opposite Celestine, ignoring the warning. "I'm Hermione Granger."

_Muggleborn_, she thought immediately. _Has to be_.

Manners dictated that she reply in kind, so she reluctantly said. "Celestine Lestrange."

The girl had somehow managed to pull a book out of her robes, though from where Celestine was not entirely sure, and now had it propped on her lap, open to somewhere in the middle. _A Study of Magical Theory_, a book clearly not intended for first year students. Her lips moved as she read, and her finger traced the lines with careful precision.

Celestine knew she should be offended. The girl hadn't even waited for her to reply. Somehow, the nonchalant attitude was oddly relieving. She wasn't up to having yet another person judge her because of her parents. Hermione Granger probably didn't know she was in the company of hellspawn, but she would soon enough, and then she would want nothing to do with Celestine. Not even sit in the same compartment as her, lest it attract stigma.

"Did you know," spoke Hermione Granger abruptly, startling Celestine, "there is a giant squid in the Black Lake at Hogwarts?"

She eyed the girl sitting opposite her, wondering whether she should leave and find another compartment. "Yes…I did."

"Did you know," she said immediately after, not even pausing to draw a breath, "the North Tower is four and a half meters taller than the others? Godric Gryffindor bribed the architect to do it."

"No, and I don't care."

"Did you know—" Celestine rolled her eyes this time "—there are five times more books in the Restricted Section than there are in the general library?"

"No," she replied carefully, "but I _really_ don't care."

Hermione ignored her. "Did you know, the Headmaster of Hogwarts can travel instantly within the castle?"

"Yes, actually. I did," she snapped. "Now can you please stop badgering me?"

Hermione looked up from book for the first time. "Oh, knew already?"

Celestine shrugged indifferently. "He has a phoenix. Anti-apparition wards can't stop him," she replied. "My cousin told me he sometimes pops in mid-class to scare the students. Gets a laugh or two out of it."

The bushy-haired girl watched her for a second, a shadow of respect in her eyes. "Did you know," she said once again, in that infuriatingly even voice of hers, "you can find the names of every student who has ever died in Hogwarts written on the ceiling of a classroom on the third floor of the castle?"

"Now that's interesting, but I still don't care."

Hermione Granger shrugged and returned to her book.

But she looked back up almost immediately. "Did you know, Harry Potter will be attending Hogwarts with us this year?"

Celestine jerked upright. _Of course_, she thought, almost smacking her head against the glass in frustration. _That's why he had Kreacher. _

_Dudley Dursley is Harry James Black. _

_Who just happens to be Harry Potter!_

It was only after that belated stroke of genius that Celestine realized they weren't the only ones in the compartment. Someone had entered quietly, alerting neither of them to his presence. His hands were folded behind his back, his trunk stood beside him, and he looked almost smug at having surprised her.

Harry Potter.

* * *

"Dudley Dursley," said the girl sitting opposite her, distracting Hermione from book. There was a steely edge to her tone, as if she was fighting to hold back a tide of anger. "Come here to gloat?"

Hermione Granger was perceptive, a quality she cherished and one which she employed diligently when given the chance. The first detail she noticed about the newcomer was that he had a scar on his forehead. He was clearly trying to hide it with his disorderly mass of hair, and it might have fooled everyone else, but not her. She was far too alert to miss the angry mark on the edge of his hairline, standing out like a beacon of truth.

"That's Harry Potter," she said matter-of-factly, "Not Dudley Dursley."

The violet-eyed girl blinked at her. "You don't say?" she exclaimed. "_Harry Potter?_ Like _the_ Harry Potter."

Hermione bobbed her head, the sarcasm lost on her. "I know about you," she continued, directing her attention to the boy. "You're in _Modern Magical History_ and _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts and Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century_. Oh, and I read that humiliating article in _Daily Prophet_. Rita Skeeter may be a third-rate reporter, but she has a knack for tearing people down. Too bad there aren't any libel laws in the wizarding world to protect you."

They were both staring at her now, befuddled expressions on their face.

"Don't go easy on me now," replied Harry Potter, grinning suddenly. "Tell me what you really think."

Once again, the sarcasm had no effect. Hermione lacked a few basic abilities that came naturally to others, most importantly the skill to adequately analyze a social situation. Emotions were difficult for her; inflections in tone made little sense. She only recognized broad sentiments like sadness, anger, fear, happiness and loathing. Nothing beyond that. Especially not the lowest form of wit: sarcasm.

"Well, I believe Rita Skeeter may have been a little too harsh," replied Hermione, unaware that her newest 'friend', Celestine, was watching her with an annoyed expression and the boy with a somewhat bemused one. "Given the limited facts, her conclusions were ultimately predicated on indefensible leaps of logic. How can you possibly infer a student is a danger to his fellows and a potential dark wizard simply from the fact that he changed his name? It's a slippery slope argument. I've looked at it logically and the assumptions required to arrive at those conclusions cannot be supported by the facts put forward in the article. Then again, that seems to matter little to Rita Skeeter or the general public—they value gossip. You should consider going to Durmstrang. I hear the weather is fine there this time of the year."

Harry stood in his place for a few seconds—brow furrowed in mix of amusement and wonder—before pushing his trunk under one the seats and dropping down into a comfortable position.

"You can't sit there," snapped Celestine immediately, not even deigning to look his way. "It's taken. And I don't like liars. I don't like liars who lie to the people who help them. Liar."

He ran a hand through his unruly hair and hissed out a breath, clearly frustrated. "I truly regret giving you a false name," he said, and even Hermione could make out the attempt to be sincere. "But I didn't tell you because…well, you know why not. I didn't want to attract attention to myself."

"Great. Now go away."

It was my first day amongst wizards," he said, as if he hadn't heard her, "and you were friendly to be me not because I was Harry Potter, but because I was just someone in need. I wanted that to last. I apologize and I hope you can forgive me."

Celestine stared out of the window, doggedly ignoring him.

"I'm surprised she didn't notice the scar," commented Hermione, catching onto what was happening. "How does one miss something like that? It's right there on your forehead."

"You're not helping," replied Harry, frowning at her. "Who are you, by the way?"

"Hermione Granger—Muggleborn. And your scar really is quite obvious," she replied with blunt honesty. "Research shows that only a very small number of people actively absorb and process latent aspects of their environment due to the average man's inability to compartmentalize the different—"

_SLAM!_

Celestine's handprint stood out on the leather seat beside her. "You spew out one more senseless fact and I'll hex you," she hissed, though the threat didn't seem to faze Hermione at all. "And you, Dudley Dursley."

"Actually, it's Harry—"

"No, it's Dudley," she replied through clenched teeth. "Why pick that name? Out of all the possible—I don't even know why I'm having this conversation with you! Go somewhere else and take _this _nutter along," she said, indicating Hermione. "And in my opinion, Rita Skeeter went easy on you."

But Celestine wasn't done. She rounded on Harry again, prodding his chest with a stiff finger. "And since when are you a Black?" she demanded. "How is it you're the head of the family? I can't believe I missed the ring on your finger, but I was too bothered trying to save your butt!"

He had the decency to look abashed and his cheeks colored slightly. "I didn't think you would care what my name was. Honestly, we'd just met," he replied. "For all I knew, Weasley had sent you to find out who I was. It's what I would have done if I was in his position."

"Ron Weasley?" laughed Celestine bitterly. "That boy's too stupid to come up with a plan like that. Maybe Fred and George, but they're a devious pair. You could have seriously benefited from my help, seeing as how you'll have more than a few enemies at Hogwarts, but I don't like liars. Goodbye, Dudley."

Celestine made for the door, but Harry caught her wrist and held fast. "Look," he said firmly. "I want to be friends. Really, I do. And not just because you can help me. Give me a second chance. I'll prove I'm a worthy friend."

Hermione set aside her book, uncomfortable with all the emotion. She didn't do well in situations like this, so she decided to stare out of the window. If she hadn't looked away at that moment, she might have noticed the door slide open to admit three more students, making their compartment so much more crowded.

"Well what do we have here?" said a cold voice. "Celestine Lestrange in the company of Harry Potter and a mudblood?"

Hermione looked around in time to see Harry straighten in his seat. "It's Black, actually," he replied. "And you are? Wait, let me guess: Draco Malfoy."

The latest addition to their compartment looked surprised, an emotion Hermione had taught herself to recognize. He was pale and thin, with white-blonde hair that was long enough to bind behind his head. She thought he was quite pretty, like a girl.

"Well, yes," said the boy suspiciously, his brow furrowed. "I _am_ Draco Malfoy. How did you guess—?"

"Out of my way, snotface," hissed Celestine, her violet eyes glittering with fury. "I'm leaving this place."

"That's no way to speak to your betters, Celest dear," said the white-haired boy, looking away from Harry and grinning at her. "Don't you even want to say hello to your cousin Draco? It's been so long."

She took a deliberate step forward, which Hermione considered quite impressive when you took into account the large brutes flanking Draco Malfoy. Something told her Celestine knew how to handle herself, no doubt because she'd been raised in the wizarding world and knew a great deal more _actual_ magic.

"If you don't step aside, Malfoy," she said slowly, "I'm going to draw on you right here."

His grin widened. "You can't take me, Lestrange. Not now; not ever."

"_Let. Me. Pass._"

The weight of the moment settled on the occupants of the compartment, hanging over them like a stifling blanket. Hermione's mind settled into a steady rhythm as she observed the high-stress situation, absorbing multiple details instantly, analyzing and breaking down every relevant aspect of her environment.

The brutes on either side of the pale-faced boy had taken a step back, likely to give them room to draw their wands. Either they were incredibly calm or incapable of showing emotion, because their faces were fixed like stone. Draco hadn't moved an inch from his original position, but his muscles were taught in preparation to reach for his wand. Opposite him, Celestine was similarly poised.

Something told Hermione she was the fastest of them and the one with least to lose. There was a certain wildness about the violet-eyed girl; clearly she was spoiling for a fight.

And finally, of course, there was Harry Potter. He was utterly relaxed, one leg crossed over the other and an expression of genuine curiosity on his face—as if he was watching something incredibly fascinating. Much like Hermione, he was watching from a distance, breaking the situation down into individual pieces and considering it objectively.

"Look what we have here," announced a voice from just outside the compartment. "A couple of junior Death Eaters. Looks like it's our lucky day, cousins."

A tall boy forced his way in, accompanied by two others. His hair was the color of carrots and he already had his wand out, a cruel grin on his face. Hermione decided she liked him the least of all, mostly because he'd drawn his wand without giving the others a chance to react. Somehow, his actions were a violation of the unspoken rules of combat that seemed to hang over Celestine and Draco.

"Walk away, Weasley," replied Celestine, not so much as sparing a glance at the red-headed boy. "This has nothing to do with you."

"Shut your face, Lestrange," sneered the redhead. "You shouldn't even be here. Your kind belongs in Azkaban with the rest of Voldemort's followers. Lucius too, that old git."

Draco's mouth twisted with fury. "Use your wand or put it away, Weasley," he spat. "This isn't a children's game."

"Yeah?" replied the redhead, a glint entering his eye. "Well I'll show you, Malfoy. _Expelli—"_

There was a flurry of movement from everyone in the compartment and the windows rattled as half a dozen spells discharged simultaneously at close quarters. Hermione had dropped to the ground the moment she sensed the oncoming battle and barely avoided a hex that flew her way. It struck the floor instead and left a black scorch mark at the point of impact.

Hermione drew her wand from one of her pockets, only to realize she had never before performed a spell. Now certainly wasn't the time to start experimenting, especially if would attract the attention of people who had been around magic all their lives. That wasn't a scenario she saw ending well for her.

She looked away from the flying spells just in time to see Harry stand up slowly and stride right into the middle of the fight, unarmed and unworried. And then another round of magic clouded her vision, brilliant lights flashing in a blinding haze. The entire compartment shook as a stray spell struck the wall, bursting in a cloud of a smoke that shrouded the fighters in a mass of gray.

Shouts filled the corridors as people streamed out of their compartments, but the acrid smoke veiled the battle from their view. One of Draco's brutes stumbled out, coughing and wandless, followed closely by the red-headed boy who started the fight. He had similarly lost his wand during the confusion. After that, no one fired any spells. Calm returned and the smoke began to clear.

Celestine was still standing, as was Malfoy, both with their wands in hand and seemingly unharmed. But two others were on the floor, groaning and clutching at their bellies, red in the face from some hex or another.

"WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?" A senior student pushed through the press of bodies, the gold glint of a prefect badge visible on his chest. "OUT OF THE WAY! DON'T YOU DARE GO FOR THAT WAND ZABINI!"

Hermione scrambled back into her seat, trying to look innocent, and realized Harry was sitting opposite her, relaxed as ever and unruffled by the brief but intense battle. Her perfect memory replayed what had happened, and she was sure she had seen him enter the fray, if only briefly. Whatever his motives, he had done something without anyone noticing—something even she had missed in the chaos.

Harry looked at her suddenly as if he knew what she was thinking and winked deviously.

"Everyone return to your compartments," ordered a female prefect, holding her arms out and pushing every back. "There's nothing to see here. Return to your compartments!"

Her command mostly fell on deaf ears, but a few people retreated back along the corridor.

"Where's my wand?" the red-haired boy kept repeating, looking around in alarm. "I can't find it! Rory, where's my wand?"

One of the boys on the ground shook his head and groaned aloud, suffering from the side-effects of a spell. The red-haired boy kept scrambling about, repeating the question over and over again.

_Serves him right. He shouldn't have started the fight_, thought Hermione, although she felt a pang of unease. She had never broken the rules, never stepped outside her comfort zone or gone against the norm. Technically, she hadn't done anything wrong, but she _had_ drawn her wand when she thought she was in danger. If Hermione had known how to use it, there was a possibility she would have.

Celestine put her wand away and shot a disgusted look at the redheaded boy. "You're a disgrace, Weasley," she hissed. "A disgrace."

With that announcement, she disappeared into the crowd, but not before a prefect tried to catch her. She was too quick, however, and easily escaped his grasp, vanishing into the mix of students. Draco too melted away, followed by his brutes, and that only left the red-headed boy and his companions, who were promptly hauled away by the prefects.

Harry and Hermione stayed in their corners, passing unnoticed in the midst of the rush. When she made to get up, Harry raised his hand and gestured for her to stay sitting. She quietly obeyed, but only because it made sense. There was no point drawing attention to herself at this point. The worst was already over.

When the sound began to abate, he walked to the entrance of the compartment and slid the door shut. It didn't remain close for long, however. A moment later, it opened once more and two redheads slipped, both grinning from ear to ear. They were twins—identical—and Hermione wondered whether they were brothers of the boy who had instigated the fight and later lost his wand.

"Well well _well_," said one. "Blimey, would you look at this, George? If it isn't—

"Harry Potter," completed the second, gaping down at green-eyed boy. "A real pleasure. Truly. That was some neat trick you pulled back there. Didn't see it coming."

"No we didn't, did we brother mine? Quick as a theif," continued the first with a grin, "but George here saw you snatch Ickle Ronnie's wand."

"Right out of his hand too," said George, nudging his brother. "I think we have a real trickster on our hands, Fred. Mother might've been right about this one."

"Aye, he's a dangerous one."

Hermione watched the twins talk back and forth, fascinated by the exchange. If she didn't know better, she might have thought it was rehearsed. They didn't even pause to draw a breath.

"And I suppose you're here to demand I return your brother's wand?" asked Harry, the shadow of a smile on his lips. "Well, you're mistake. I'm sorry to say I don't have it—"

"Look at that, brother," said George (or was it Fred?). "Thinks he can lie to us."

"Afraid you can't, my friend," said the other. "We saw it clear as day. But we don't want you to return anything."

"You don't?" asked Harry.

"Not at all. Serves Ickle Ronnie right."

"Real prick, our brother is."

"Real prick," agreed the second. "Mother'll have his skin for this—"

"And his balls."

Hermione flushed and busied herself with her book.

Harry stared at them suspiciously. "So why're you here if not to help you brother?"

"Oh, to give our—"

"Salutations, of course. And to save you a seat at the Gryffindor table—"

"Should you want to join us before the sorting."

Hermione sat up. "I'll be going to Ravenclaw," she announced for no apparent reason. "Are you from Gryffindor, then? I hear you can choose where to go."

The twins turned to her. "A myth—"

"Nothing but a legend."

"A tale spun by fools."

"Don't believe a word."

"Hogwarts is a place of lies."

And, with that, they were gone, leaving them alone.

Hermione looked at the boy opposite her. "I may be wrong, but did they seem odd to you?"

"You're not wrong. They were definitely a strange pair," he replied, looking thoughtful. His face cleared a moment later, and he returned his attention to her "How do you like the wizarding world so far? Fascinating, isn't it?"

Hermione bobbed her head. "I'll have to relearn everything I know," she said excitedly. "Nothing makes sense anymore. Not physics, chemistry, or even math. Have you studied Transfiguration yet? Where does all the excess mass disappear to after a spell? And what about Potions? How can a solution possibly determine a person's luck? There is no logic to it—no form or consistency. The sheer scope of it is unimaginable. I could discover the cure to cancer or end the food crisis in Africa. Perhaps even solve the mystery of god."

"I share your enthusiasm," he replied, grinning at her, "but clearly not for the same reasons. We should be friends, Hermione Granger. We aren't much like the rest of them, and I suppose it's never a bad idea to know someone as smart as you."

She considered him with a shrewd look. "And what would I get in return?" she asked logically, knowing an alliance shouldn't be without a price.

Harry blinked as if it had never occurred to him that someone wouldn't want to be his friend. "Well, I suppose it's a reasonable question," he said, not sounding at all offended—not that Hermione could tell, at least. "If anything, I admire your practicality. For one, I could provide you with protection."

"Protection?" Her eyes crinkled in confusion. "What from?"

"Those who want to harm you, of course."

She had no clue what he was talking about, which was rare for her. Hermione made it a point to be aware of all things she was expected to know, and her safety or lack thereof was definitely a matter of significance.

"I'm not aware of anyone who wants to harm me."

The green-eyed boy waved his hand. "Remember the white-haired guy who was just in here? Draco Malfoy? He referred to you as a…forgive me for saying so, but as a _mudblood_. Do you know what that word means?"

"It's the first time I heard the term," she replied, frowning. "But I suppose it must refer to my status as a Muggleborn. It isn't very polite."

"No, it isn't," he agreed. "And as you probably know, blood purity is a serious concern in the wizarding world. Most dark wizards of the past century have sought not only to shun those of muggle descent, but to entirely remove them from the equation, so to speak."

Hermione was suddenly uneasy, but she still managed a casual shrug. "It's highly improbable that I would run into a dark wizard while at Hogwarts," she argued seriously. "Do you have any evidence to support your theory that I'm in danger or are you speculating?"

"I'm not speculating. There're quite a few people in the wizarding world who believe Muggleborns don't deserve the same rights as purebloods, let alone the right to be recognized as wizards. Draco Malfoy is an example of this prejudice," he replied in that reasonable and commanding tone of his. "His family is the leading advocate of blood purity; his father, Lucius, was allied to Voldemort during his reign of terror. Let's not forget the Carrows, Notts, Greengrasses and Parkinsons, all noble families and followers of Voldemort, and all of who have scions studying with us at Hogwarts. I've done my research, Hermione Granger. The threat against you, _and _me, is very real."

Harry leaned forward, gaze intent. "It's naïve to imagine you'll be safe here," he said to her. "Where do you think dark wizards come from? They don't spring out of the earth already evil. No, much like us, they attend Hogwarts at the age of eleven. They learn to accept the darkness, to despise muggles and Muggleborn, and to uphold the ideals of blood purity. They gather a following of like-minded wizards about them before imposing their beliefs on those who think differently. Hogwarts is as dangerous a place as any—it is the beginning."

Her heart had turned to iron and plummeted lower with every word until it settled in her stomach, where it stayed like a cold weight, spreading doubt through her. She was suddenly afraid, an emotion she had rarely experienced within her bubble of safety. The non-wizarding had been so unthreatening and uncomplicated. But it was different now, especially with what Harry had said. His argument was reasonable and convincing.

Were eleven-year-olds expected to play a part in politics of their elders? It didn't seem fair, but Hermione had studied the histories of a dozen nations and she knew that the world was rarely, if ever, a fair place. Everyone in the wizarding world seemed to grow up awfully fast, most likely because they were handing children weapons capable of taking life and placing upon them a heavy burden. Seven years to decide who they were, what they would do with their life, and what path to take. It was unreasonable, but it was reality.

Hermione stared at her hands for a long moment, folded neatly in her lap. "If you're saying all these things to scare me—"

"I'm not," he replied, sounding offended. "I just think you should be careful. You don't have to take my word for it, but I felt an obligation to warn you. You don't even have to be my friend. But if you do need my assistance, don't hesitate to ask."

Hermione nodded carefully. "Thanks," she said. "It's just…people aren't usually this helpful."

"I'm not 'people'." Harry sighed and leaned back. "You deserve to know what the wizarding world is like. I've made friends this past month who have told me quite a few interesting things. The danger we face is very real. You're a Muggleborn and I'm The-Boy-Who-Lived. We're both equally hated by those who want to restore the old order. More so now that Gellert Grindelwald is free from Nurmengard."

"I heard about it."

"And have you read about him?"

"Yes," replied Hermione, her voice dropping slightly. "He wanted to purify the wizarding population. Rid the world of Muggleborns. Do you think Dumbledore can stop him again?"

"Perhaps," said Harry. "I don't know Dumbledore personally. From what I've heard, he's a wizard to be feared. Let's hope his presence keeps Grindelwald away. It's no secret that all dark wizards begin their recruitment at Hogwarts. Young minds ready for corruption."

Hermione shuddered at the iciness in his voice. There was no fear there, just contempt. She knew in a deep part of her that she should stay close to him. That his words were truer than any. With Grindelwald free, there was no way to know what would happen next.

"I wouldn't mind being friends with you," she said tentatively, shrugging a shoulder. "But I won't do your assignments or cheat on exams. Or break any rules."

"Just friends," he replied, grinning. The darkness seemed to lift from him. "But you'll help me with homework, won't you?"

"Alright, maybe just homework," she agreed grudgingly.

He opened his mouth to say something, but was forestalled when a tentative knock interrupted them. The door to their compartment slid open once again to reveal a trembling boy who looked on the verge of tears.

"E-excuse me," murmured the student, struggling to meet their gaze. "I'm N-Neville Longbottom. I've lost my pet toad…have you seen him anywhere?"

Harry straightened in his seat, reacting to the name, his gaze sharpened on the boy. "Why don't you sit down, Neville," he said, surprising Hermione. "You don't look too well."

"I c-can't. My toad—"

"I'm sure you toad will turn up," he replied reassuringly. "And if doesn't, we would be glad to help you look, wouldn't we?"

Hermione bobbed her head. "We would."

The boy glanced between them, an amazed expression on his face. "Y-you want me to sit with you?"

"Why not?" he replied as if he'd been asked the most absurd. "I'm Harry James Black, formerly Potter, and this is Hermione Granger."

Neville stifled a gasp. "Harry P-Potter?"

"Black, actually."

"S-Sorry, of course," apologized the boy quickly.

"It doesn't matter," replied Harry. "Come in and join us."

Neville edged into the compartment reluctantly, almost as if he was afraid they would revoke the invitation. "I-I'm Neville—well you a-already know who I am. I lost my toad."

Hermione wondered why he was repeating himself. It seemed like an odd thing to do.

But Harry just nodded and gestured for the boy to take a seat. "Glad to have you with us, Neville Longbottom," he replied. "I think we'll get along famously."

As if inspired by his words, the Hogwarts Express set out from Platform Nine and Three Quarters, setting them on a path to the future.

* * *

Author's Note: In the next chapter, Harry arrives at Hogwarts. BOOM SHAKALAKA!


	9. Interlude: Minerva McGonagall

Author's Note: Yet another interlude. I find these quite interesting, because they provide important insights into the story as well as develop the characters. I like to keep them short since they aren't complete chapters, but they contain quite a bit of information.

* * *

**Interlude**

**Minerva McGonagall  
**

For Minerva McGonagall, the first day of the new school year was the most difficult of all. Yet another term, yet another promise of mischief and headaches, and yet another batch of students to whom she would teach the basic functions of Transfiguration. This time, however, she felt a giddy excitement coursing through her.

It was Rose's second year at Hogwarts.

The little girl had been looking forward to this day , falling asleep to stories of Hogwarts and its many mysteries. Although Rose wasn't her own daughter, Minerva had never treated her as anything but such. The Potters had entrusted their little girl into her care, and she had kept her promise to them every day since. She had raised Rose as a proud Gryffindor, to uphold the virtues of the house to which she would be sorted. It had filled her lonely life with happiness.

Rose was brave, intelligent and loyal, although somewhat shy and very modest. She had Lily's flare, however, and there were times her temper showed. It was difficult to imagine a little girl like her being scary, but Minerva had seen her put her brother Damien in his place more than once. There was steel in her that Minerva knew every great Gryffindor possessed. She couldn't wait to have Rose as her student.

She was already smiling like a fool thinking about it.

The Transfigurations professor shook herself and set the Sorting Hat down on the stool at the very head of the Great Hall, just below the staff table. It stirred slightly, the slit of the mouth opening in a lazy yawn. Even after all these years, she sometimes forgot it wasn't just a hat. It was the voice of Hogwarts, imbued with a small piece of each founding father and bound in ancient and powerful magic, the secrets of which were long forgotten.

McGonagall was about to turn away when the Sorting Hat's booming voice erupted across the Great hall. "Rose Potter's place is in Hogwarts." Its words echoed off the stone walls. "Do not fear, Minerva McGonagall."

The professor jerked away in shock, only to have the Hat laugh at her in a loud voice. She flushed at her childish behavior and considered scolding the Hat, but thought better of challenging the ancient relic. She quickly hurried out of the Great Hall, distracted by her thoughts, and almost ran headlong into quiet figure approaching her along the corridor outside.

It was Eleanor Vadyrn, the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. She was dressed in dark robes that melted into the shadows and her black eyes kept a watchful eye on her surroundings, ever alert. If Mad-Eye were here, he would have been impressed. _Constant vigilance!_

Minerva had voiced her concern to the Headmaster over the appointment of the mysterious woman, recommending the hiring of a candidate who was more…approachable and someone who they knew more about. It was never a safe option to allow a person as powerful and secretive within Hogwarts's walls.

Professor Vadyrn was undoubtedly skilled at magic. Minerva was willing to admit that much without argument. Perhaps she would even be a good teacher, someone who truly taught the students how to defend against the Dark Arts and not merely how to banish harmless boggarts. But there were simply too many unanswered questions around her, most importantly her reason for applying to Hogwarts for a job.

Eleanor Vadyrn belonged to a Romanian noble family whose wealth equaled that of the Blacks, Malfoys and Diggorys. Why would she come to England in search of a post, albeit a prestigious position at the greatest wizarding school in history? No matter what way Minerva considered it, the woman had an agenda that concerned Hogwarts, and that immediately posed a question: was she a danger to the students?

"Professor McGonagall," said the woman in the way of greeting, drawing Minerva out of her thoughts.

"Professor Vadyrn," she replied, imbuing calm into her voice and pushing back her instinctive distrust. "I'm surprised to see you here. I thought you would be preparing for the arrival of the students."

"Preparing?"

"Why, for your speech, of course," clarified Minerva. "The Headmaster may ask you to introduce yourself and say a few words. It's tradition. Nothing too long."

Eleanor Vadyrn nodded in understanding. "Professor Dumbledore informed me, but I have found that the most meaningful words come naturally," she replied. "I will speak from the heart and hope it suffices."

Minerva was about to agree, but she paused and fixed the other woman under an intense gaze. "The Headmaster told me about your concerns."

"Concerns?"

"Gellert Grindelwald," replied the Transfigurations professor simply.

"Ah, the Blackmage."

McGonagall winced. "It's been years since I heard him called that," she said. "But yes, the Blackmage. Will you be mentioning him in your speech?"

"Most likely I will."

Minerva sighed. "I don't mean to tell you want to do," she said carefully, "but you should consider the consequences of discussing such a delicate topic with the students. There will be first years in attendance. Innocent children."

Eleanor Vadyrn seemed to consider her words for a moment before speaking. "I doubt there is anyone in the wizarding world who does not know about Gellert Grindelwald," she replied. "The _Daily Prophet_ has made sure of that. The children you seek to protect are well aware of his escape; I will simply provide a word of caution."

"We don't want them frightened."

Eleanor lifted her chin. "Fear is effective," she said evenly. "Only a fool would not fear the darkness. Even the Headmaster recognizes the magnitude of the threat facing us. He has allowed me a brief minute to warn the students of Hogwarts, and I will do my best to make it count."

Minerva felt a hint of trepidation blossom in her heart. Rose would be there along with the other first years. Eleanor was right. Warning the students was the correct course to take, but Minerva couldn't help but feel uneasy about all of it. After You-Know-Who's death, no imagined the rise of another Dark Lord—especially not so soon. Only eleven years of peace had gone by and Grindelwald was now free to rebuild his following.

"I will take my leave," spoke Professor Vadyrn, interrupting her thoughts. "Professor Dumbledore has asked me to look over the wards and add to them where I see fit. If I want to be done before the feast, I should return to the task."

Minerva watched her disappear, somewhat envious of the younger woman's remarkable calm. The Headmaster had asked her to keep an eye on the Romanian heiress, to gauge her intentions if possible, but she had found herself oddly taken by Eleanor. There was a unshakable cold in her that had to be admired, a determination that perhaps Hogwarts needed in this dark time.

The Transfigurations professor let go of her worry for the moment and followed the corridors, making sure everything was in place for the arrival of the Hogwarts express in an hour. Regulus Black, the Keeper of the Keys and Grounds, was likely already down at Hogsmead, waiting for the students to disembark the train, from where they would be carried by boats across the Black Lake.

When Regulus had first accepted the position of Gamekeeper many years ago, Minerva had argued against his hiring, afraid a former Death Eater would cause nothing but trouble if he were let into Hogwarts. Dumbledore had seen differently, and apparently he had been right to do so. Regulus was a quiet man who preferred seclusion over company. Though outwardly cold, he clearly cared for Hogwarts. It would have been impossible to maintain the place if he hadn't. He and Minerva were not close, but they respected one other enough not to get in each other's way.

McGonagall finally arrived at the North Tower and passed through the portrait of the Fat Lady into the Gryffindor common room. Everything seemed in place. She looked once over it, a forlorn expression on her face.

Rose would be here soon. And so would Harry. Harry Potter, the child she and Dumbledore had abandoned years ago at the Dursleys. Would Rose think less of her once she found out? She hadn't really had a choice in the matter; it was the Headmaster who did it. But she always wondered…what if she had fought a little harder. Perhaps she could have put Harry in a wizarding home, to be raised as he was supposed to be.

Minerva sighed and turned away, setting aside her troubling thoughts.

* * *

Author's Note: In the next chapter, Harry arrives at Hogwarts and prepares to be sorted into one of the four houses. Hufflepuff, perhaps (just kidding). Or am I?


	10. Chapter 8: The Black Lake

Author's Note: I had an idea to put some of the character's together on the boat ride to Hogwarts and rile up some interesting conversation. Tell me what you think.

**Important Note (read or die): **In _Interlude: Minerva McGonagall_, I may have mentioned Rose Potter was just beginning Hogwarts. That is _**incorrect**_. Rose Potter is now a second year. My bad. Some helpful readers pointed it out. You all get 2 points.

Once again, forgive grammar mistakes. I'm writing this all on my lonesome. It's difficult to proofread and edit your own work.

* * *

**Eight**

**The Black Lake**

"First years! First years!" called out a strong voice. "Over here!"

Hermione and Harry hopped off the train and onto a tall platform lit by blue orbs, which floated in the air as if suspended from invisible wires. A bright, gray moon shone in the sable sky over Hogwarts, glowing over the towering spires much like a beacon to guide their way home. It cast a blanket of silver light over the Black Lake, which stretched out below the platform—a rippling mass of darkness—toward the silhouette of Hogwarts in the distance, perched atop a high mountain on the opposite side.

It was a fascinating sight—magical even. Hermione was not partial to beauty; she cared little for it, really. But now, stepping off the Hogwarts express and taking in the place that would be her home for the next ten months…Hermione could not help but feel a warm glow blossom in her heart.

"First years!"

Harry took her elbow in his grip. "Come on," he said, grinning down at her. "We don't want to be the last ones there, do we?"

Without waiting for her reply, he dragged her into the unruly throng of first years flowing towards the voice. Harry had a way about him that made others step aside instinctively, so they managed to cut through the crowd with surprising ease and were one of the firsts to arrive. Short only of Celestine, of course, who stood a distance from them, alone and quiet.

At the edge of the platform, in front a staircase that led down to a pier, was a tall man with one of the glowing blue orbs floating beside his head. Hermione recognized them as werelights, and she even remembered the incantation from a fourth-year charms book. The orbs would follow the caster wherever he went or follow whomever the caster wanted them to. Just one of the marvels of the wizarding world.

The cloaked man at the end of the platform had a light stubble on his face and dark, windswept hair. His eyes were intent and fierce and he had a hawk-like—predatory—intensity about him. Oddly enough, it reminded her of Harry. He'd given her much the same impression when they first met on the train. And almost as soon as the thought occurred to her, the man turned to look at them.

His eyes focused on Harry first, whose hand tightened around her elbow imperceptibly, gold ring digging into her flesh. His face didn't change at all, and she might not have even noticed his reaction were it not for his grip on her. Somehow, these two knew each other. Perhaps they were even acquainted; why else would there be so much displeasure in the air?. She really couldn't tell with so little information or contextual background. She knew it was foolish to reach conclusions where there were nothing but assumptions to make.

For the moment, she let it go, but it didn't seem like Harry had. His eyes bored into the man until the rest of the first years had gathered, a bickering lot who kept straining to get a look at hulking shadow of Hogwarts in the distance. Hermione didn't know why they bothered: it was too dark and too far away to see much more than a shapeless mass.

"My name is Regulus Black," said the man, his voice rising above the chatter. "I am the Keeper of the Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts."

The silence was immediate.

Several heads turned towards Harry and then swiveled back to the Gamekeeper. Even Hermione stared at him for a long moment, swift realization settling over her. Harry was a Black now. The _only_ Black who mattered. And though she had no idea who Regulus was, it seemed like Harry recognized him; in fact, the look in his eyes was cold and unforgiving—the same one he had used with the Ron Weasley on the Hogwarts Express.

"Listen closely," continued the Gamekeeper, apparently unaffected by the attention. "You will sit four students to every boat. You will be carried across the Black Lake to Hogwarts, but make sure not to touch the water or lean over the side. Should you be foolish enough to fall, I will make you swim the remainder of the way, is that understood?"

Hermione turned to Harry. "I can't tell if he's serious," she said with a frown. "Is that sarcasm?"

The anger bled from his face almost immediately and he stifled a laugh. "No, I think he's serious, Hermione," he replied, lips twitching with mirth. "Or at least he's trying to scare us. Don't worry; if you fall I'll be sure to catch you. I'm an excellent swimmer."

She frowned at him suspiciously. "Will I owe you, then?" she asked. "I don't want to owe you favors. I told you I wouldn't cheat or break the rules—"

"You don't have to cheat or break any rules," he spoke, cutting her off. There was a hint of impatience in his tone, and she wasn't sure whether it was towards her or the people staring at them. "I told you: we're friends and I won't ask you to cheat or do anything you're not comfortable with. This may come as a surprise, but I'm actually here to learn. Hogwarts doesn't exactly look like a place I can have fun at, not with all this attention."

"I'm sorry. I didn't really consider that."

He managed a stiff smile and waved his hand, the gold ring on his finger glinting in the werelight. "Don't worry about it," he said. "Come, we should find ourselves a boat. I don't want to sit with anyone I don't like."

Hermione stepped up behind Harry and followed him toward the staircase leading down to the boats. As they passed the Gamekeeper, he turned slightly and stared Harry right in the eye. His expression was flat—not angry, not curious. Simply impassive. A blank mask. It was a mere second's contact before Harry walked by, not even deigning to acknowledge the man's presence.

Questions nagged at her, but she held her tongue, knowing they weren't yet good enough friends for her to broach the topic. They descended along the steps and slipped into the first unmanned boat along the edge of the pier. The moment they were comfortable, Harry craned his head back and looked at the crowd of students funneling onto the dock.

"Celestine!" he called out over the tide of voices. "Oi, Lestrange! Stop ignoring me!"

The violet-eyed girl jerked sharply, glaring at them with fury. "_What?_" she hissed, obviously annoyed by all the attention suddenly on her. "Leave me alone, _Dudley_."

"Now, don't be bitter. You're better than that," he countered, grinning mischievously and ignoring her refusal to use his name. "Come sit with us. The three of us have more in common than you know."

Celestine arched a single eyebrow. "We have a lot in common? Like what?" she asked. "I'm certainly not a liar like you. And I'm definitely not a mudblood like _her_!"

Hermione whitened visibly and looked away, embarrassed at being singled out like that in front of her classmates. She kept her jaw clenched against the tears, forcing herself to stare at the waters of the Black Lake. Hermione had never been accepted by anyone, not even before she found out she was a witch. It didn't seem like Hogwarts would be any different than the muggle world. Except, perhaps, when it came to Harry.

The boat dipped slightly, rocking her in her seat, and she heard a loud sigh from beside her. It was Celestine.

"Look, I didn't mean that," she said, sounding more than a little tired. "Sometimes I get angry and say things I shouldn't. I really don't care whether you're a Muggleborn or Pure Blood. I said it to hurt you; I didn't say it because I believe in that stuff."

Hermione turned to glare at the girl. "That doesn't make it any better, does it?"

Celestine shrugged. "I didn't say it was any better. I just said I don't care about your birth."

"Well, that settles it," said Harry firmly to them, still smiling. He looked away immediately, focusing on someone in the crowd "Neville! Neville Longbottom! Over here, sit with us!"

Celestine leapt forward to grip the front of his impeccable robes. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" she sputtered in disbelief. "Longbottom can't sit here! Are you out of your mind?"

_What's happening_, thought Hermione, her injury forgotten?

But it was already too late. The awkward boy had moved closer to the boat, dragging his feet along, and spotted Celestine sitting beside them. His expression quickly changed from nervous to horrified—a deep fear and anger that filled his eyes with darkness.

Hermione tried to make sense of the situation, but she was even more confused than before. There was undoubtedly something between the two of them, but she was under the impression that Neville and Celestine had never met before. They plainly knew one another, possibly because of their place in the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Hermione had read about both their family names in _Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy_. It came as no surprise that a Longbottom would know a Lestrange, or a Lestrange a Black, or a Black and Malfoy. They were all quite closely linked, even intermarried.

This was personal, however. Between Celestine and Neville.

"There'll be no space left if you don't hurry," warned Harry, oblivious to what was going on, or at least pretending to be. "Hop in. I think I see the Gamekeeper is watching. He'll give the lot of us detention if you don't get a move on, Neville."

The boy glanced around, distracted from Celestine, and by some stroke of luck or perhaps Harry's genius, the Gamekeeper chose that exact moment to look in their direction. Neville stumbled forward in a hurry, his toad Trevor in hand, and almost fell headfirst into the boat.

Harry caught him before he knocked Celestine into the Black Lake, and pushed him firmly into the remaining space. "Watch your feet there," he laughed. "Don't want the Giant Squid eating him, do we Hermione?"

She focused on Harry suspiciously, eyes narrowed. "You were eavesdropping earlier," she accused. "That's not very kind of you."

"No, but I hear it's quite Slytherin. I'm practicing."

And with those dreadful words, the boat flowed into smooth motion.

The four of them sat in silence, with Hermione attempting desperately to interpret the glances between Neville and Celestine. Harry, on the other hand, sat relaxed in his position, a lazy smile on his face as he watched Hogwarts draw nearer. He twisted his gold ring round and round his finger, almost as if he couldn't keep from touching it. He was the epitome of calm, and she envied him his utter lack of worry.

"What house do you suppose you'll go to, Neville?" asked Hermione, hoping to dispel the tension. "I'm certain I'll go to Ravenclaw."

The boy clutched Trevor a little closer and shrugged. "W-well, my gran brought me up, and she was in Gryffindor. So were my parents" His eyes immediately went to Celestine before darting away. "But I reckon I'll go to Hufflepuff. I'm not really much good at anything, and I'm not all that brave."

"Hufflepuff is a great house," said Harry reassuringly, clasping Neville's shoulder. "In fact, the first witch I ever met was from Hufflepuff. Nymphadora Tonks. She's an auror, and a brilliant one. A metamorphagus too, believe it or not."

"You know Tonks?" asked Celestine, eyes narrowed. "She's my first cousin, not that my family would ever admit it. They hate her mother's guts."

Harry grinned and leaned back. "Well, you can blame Walburga for that," he said. "I had a talk with her portrait last week. She called me some nasty names, so I had her taken off the wall and burned to ashes. Good riddance, I say."

Hermione's eyes widened and Celestine descended into a sudden coughing fit that had her almost falling over into the lake. Neville eyed her for a moment as if she was mad, but said nothing other than look at Harry with an expression akin to fright.

"You had someone's portrait burned?" whispered Hermione, a little afraid. "That's…it's wrong Harry. It's like you killed her."

"Oh, please," he muttered. "Nothing of the sort, I assure you. The woman lived a long and miserable life, and she disowned any child of hers who didn't agree with her. Bigoted pureblood hag, that's what she was. And a follower of Voldemort too."

Celestine and Neville shivered at the name.

"I had someone from Gringotts come down to remove the Permanent Sticking Charm on the portrait," continued Harry, not bothered at all. "She tried her best to stop me, and I admire her for that, but I eventually tossed her into the fire—where she always belonged. She made for surprisingly good fuel, if you ask me. My house-elf tried to commit suicide by throwing himself in after her, but I stopped him just in time. The little idiot."

Celestine burst into laughter, miraculously over her coughing fit. "U-unbelievable," she gasped, struggling to breathe. "Well done, Dudley, well done. Honestly, everyone hated her when she was alive. They'll be glad to hear she's finally gone."

"Be sure to tell them for me, then. It wasn't as easy as you might think."

"I certainly hope not," muttered Hermione. "Murdering someone never should be."

"It's not murder if she's already dead," said Harry with a shrug. "I wanted to get rid of Phineas Nigellus's portrait along with hers, but the man isn't nearly as irritating as Walburga was," he continued, obviously enjoying himself. "We had a chat or two, mostly ending with me leaving the room."

"Phineas Nigellus?" gasped Hermione, leaning forward in interest. "You mean the once Headmaster of Hogwarts? Why ever would you ever destroy his portrait?"

Celestine rolled her violet eyes. "From what I've heard, all the Blacks were gits—not including Orion, of course," she replied. "Honestly, the whole lot of them deserved what they got in the end. You're as mad as they were, Dudley."

Harry gave her surreptitious kick in the dark in exchange for the insult. Celestine scowled and returned it with twice the force, but missed and hit Neville instead. The boy leapt in his seat and almost hurled Trevor into the Black Lake, forcing a desperate croak out of the poor creatures throat.

"Watch it, Lestrange!" he barked, suddenly no longer the sweet and nervous boy from the train. His face was twisted with anger, and he glared at her as if daring the girl to reply.

To Hermione's mounting surprise, Celestine did nothing but stare at the floor of the boat. The spirit she had shown when standing up to Draco Malfoy and Ron Weasley was mysteriously absent, almost as if she felt guilty about something, though Hermione couldn't fathom what exactly it could be. Then again, she didn't know Celestine or Neville very well. In fact, she didn't know anything about Harry either, other than what she'd read in books, of course.

For example, there was the signet ring on his finger to consider. He wouldn't stop fiddling with it, twisting it around his finger whenever he was thinking. It had the Black family emblem on it, but Hermione knew it meant more to him than a simple symbol of his position. Then there was his suspicious behavior around Celestine and Neville. He didn't seem to see the awkwardness between them, but Hermione was sure he knew about it. Why would he pretend not to?

Harry was layered like no one she had ever met.

"Regulus Black is going to give you trouble, you know," said Celestine suddenly, though her previous humor seemed to have fled after Neville's reaction. "I saw the way he looked at you. There's bound to be some animosity there. You did take his inheritance, after all."

They all watched Harry, waiting for his reply.

Naturally, he didn't seem troubled at all. In fact, he didn't even hint to having heard what she'd said. Instead, he glanced Celestine and said, "You should join us at the Gryffindor table before the sorting. Fred and George Weasley extended an invitation. Hermione and Neville will be there to, and I'd like you to come along."

The girl's eyes widened and Neville made a sound of objection.

"You've really lost it, haven't you?" demanded Celestine. "I can't sit with the Gryffindors, and you know that as well as I do. I'm a Slytherin."

"Really?" he asked, a note of skepticism in his voice. "You're awfully temperamental for a Slytherin. You're prone to anger and you didn't bat an eyelash when Draco walked in with his friends. Nor when Ron and the Prewitts arrived. You seem to have a conscience, from what I can tell, and you're kind enough to apologize to Hermione. You'll probably be the worst Slytherin in a hundred years."

"I know what you're implying!" she spat back. "That I'm a Gryffindor! Well, I'm not! Besides, the Hat listens to us. It sends us where we want to go."

_I knew I was right about that_, thought Hermione. _Those stupid twins tried to fool me_.

"The Hat may listen to you, but not when you want something that's against your very nature," replied Harry with a shrug. "You don't have friends at Slytherin. Why do you think Malfoy dislikes you as much he does? It's because he _knows_ you're not like him. He can see it on you as well as I can."

_This conversation is getting far too personal. I would hate if Celestine drew her wand._

"Shut up. Just shut your mouth, Dudley."

"Suit yourself."

"I honestly want to throw myself off this boat just to get away from you," snapped the violet-eyed girl, apparently not done. "And don't go spouting that nonsense to anyone once we're at Hogwarts. You'll just cause me trouble, and you don't want me spreading lies about you."

"Such as?"

"Oh…I don't know," said Celestine with an sickly innocent smile. "Maybe I caught you studying the dark arts. Maybe you're a Black because you're twisted like the rest of them. How do you think people are going to react to that? Rita Skeeter will look like nothing when I'm done with you. You'll be an outcast, feared and hated."

Harry threw his head back and laughed into the night, drawing stares from the other boats. "You think I care about them?" he asked, grinning. "I'm not their hero. I'm not who they want me to be. I'm just Harry, a boy who wants to live his life. They'll think whatever they like no matter what I do, so I'm going to let anyone who wants to spread lies, because the more lies there are about me, the less people will know the truth.

"Do me a favor, Celestine," he continued, leaning forward. "Say what you want about me, but don't give up on Gryffindor just yet. I may not have lived in the wizarding world as long as you, but I'm a quick learner. Trust me on this."

_She's right. He's out of his mind._

The boats began to slow down, and they all looked around to find Hogwarts looming above them, black against the purple night sky. Its spires speared upward, its walls cast dark shadows, and the moon hovered at its peak, looking down on the school as if existing for no other purpose than to illuminate its gothic splendor.

Harry leapt off the boat before it had even stopped, landing adroitly on the pier. "Hogwarts, at last," he said, drawing in a deep breath and spreading his arms as if to take in the sight. "Isn't it magnificent?"

They didn't say a word, but they all knew one thing for sure: he was mad.

* * *

Author's Note: SORTING HAT NEXT! Sorry for the delay. I'm fasting these days, because it's the month of Ramadan, and I'm exhausted most of the day.


	11. Chapter 9: The Sorting

**Author's Note:** I must apologize profusely if this chapter contains errors. I've not had the time to read it through and fix grammar mistakes, but I assure you it makes sense (or most of it does). Please attribute any meaning you like to passages that make little to no sense, and give free reign to your imagination.

The process I've explained of being sorted into Houses may or may not match the original books, mostly because I didn't have time to refer to the original text, but I've tried to remain as true as I could to what J.K. Rowling wrote. For example, the students have to line up before they are called to be sorted. By mistake, I had them sit down in the Great Hall and be called forward. Small mistake, but it made for excellent conversation. Anyhow, enjoy. I own nothing; it's all Rowling's. I'm just having fun.

* * *

**Nine**

**The Sorting**

Celestine Lestrange glared at Harry's back as they followed the winding path towards the gates of Hogwarts. The pier on the edge of the Black Lake faded into the darkness behind them, and they were guided by a single werelight that hovered behind Regulus, throwing out a circle of blue radiance for them to follow.

If this had been any other night, she may have paused to appreciate the haunting beauty of it all, but her mind was a jumble of furious thoughts. Celestine was undoubtedly certain Harry had planned for her and Neville to sit on the same boat, although she had no way of proving it. It just seemed like a twisted thing he would do, but it meant he knew about her parents—about what they'd done to the Longbottoms all those years ago.

Her cheeks burned with shame and her eyes stung with unshed tears, and she was glad no one could see her in the darkness. Meeting Neville had been a punch to the gut. Celestine knew who he was; she'd known for many years. But to see the boy with her own eyes, to see the hatred and pain reflected on his face—it had almost been too much for her to take. Celestine knew her parents' crimes were their own and had nothing to do with her, but it still didn't stop her from feeling guilty. It was stupid, but she couldn't help but suspect that, much like them, she was evil and rotten—not deserving of life.

To make it worse, she'd kicked Neville.

_All because of that stupid Harry Potter!_

Celestine gritted her teeth and shot a venomous stare in his direction. He didn't seem to care at all, ignoring her pointedly as he spoke to Hermione in hushed tones. The bushy-haired girl had her signature blank look in place, expressionless as ever. She was definitely an odd one. Celestine wondered if she was even right in head, seeing as how she struggled to even comprehend the simplest emotions yet managed somehow to blather on about almost every topic known to wizarding kind.

She was probably going to be the Bathilda Bagshot and just as nutty.

"Out of the way, Death Eater," snapped a voice from behind, just before she was shoved aside unceremoniously.

Ron sneered at her as he walked past, the Prewitt cousins—Rory and Matthias—tagging along. They went straight for Harry, boxing him in from either side and pushing Hermione back with as much gentleness as they had her. They didn't stop walking, however, each grabbing an elbow and pulling Harry along with them as if nothing at all was happening.

She had to respect the precision of it all.

"Now you listen well, Black," said Ron, his voice just loud enough to reach Celestine. "I want my wand back right _now_. You hand it over without a fuss, and I'll tell my cousins to go easy on you. Otherwise…"

Harry frowned in confusion. "Your wand? Why on earth would I have your wand?"

Rory, the larger and more brutish of the twins, drove his fist into Harry's ribs. The smaller boy barely even registered the blow, although it must have felt like a train had rammed into his side. Harry just turned his head and stared right at Rory, his green eyes burning with such malice that it forced him back two steps.

"Hit me again and I'll tear your throat out," he said simply.

Celestine felt her blood run cold. People their age came up with stupid threats. I'll beat you up. I'll punch you in the face. Nonsense like that. This was so much more real; so much more brutal. And the way he said it left no doubt he was serious.

Matthias released him as well—wisely enough. Ron, fool as he was, stalked close behind Harry, keeping his voice low so the Gamekeeper wouldn't hear him. "Don't think I didn't see you talking to Fred and George," he hissed. "They like playing pranks, but they won't be able to protect you from me. I don't listen to those fools, do you hear? If you don't hand me my wand, I'll make your life hell at Hogwarts. I've got friends in Gryffindor. My brother's a prefect—!"

Ron landed on moss covered ground, clutching a bloody nose.

Celestine stumbled to a halt.

She hadn't even seen what happened, it was so quick. She carefully replayed the events in her mind. Harry had turned, almost as if to say something in reply to Ron's threat, and then nothing. She couldn't begin to understand how he had managed it, but somehow he'd hit Ron in the face with such speed that it had entirely escaped her notice, and perhaps everyone else's.

Most of the students stopped to look back, alerting the Gamekeeper to trouble.

"What's going on?" he demanded.

When no one replied, he strode swiftly through the press and looked down at Ron, who still nursed a bleeding nose, tears of pain in his eyes.

"I asked a question. What's going on here?" he demanded again.

Ron pushed himself up, wiping the blood away with the back of his hand. "Fell down, sir," he replied, still trying to blink back tears. "My mistake."

"You fell down?" asked the Gamekeeper, eyebrows raised in noticeable doubt. "And how did you land on your nose, if I may ask?"

"Fell down, sir. On my nose."

Regulus turned and stared right at Harry, no emotion on his face. "Did he fall, Mr. Potter?"

"That would be Mr. Black, _sir_."

A charged silence filled the night.

"Did he fall?" repeated Regulus slowly.

"If Mr. Weasley says he fell, then that's what happened," said Harry without a twitch or even a hint of mockery. "I was walking in front of him. I wouldn't know."

The Gamekeeper drew his wand and waved it with a flick of his wrist. The blood evaporated from the front of Ron's black school robes and his face, and his nose stopped bleeding immediately.

"I've fixed you for now," said the Gamekeeper, "but see Madam Pomfrey in the hospital wing after the Welcoming Feast. And should you fall again, make sure it's not on your nose."

The students snickered aloud, with Draco Malfoy not even attempting to hide his mirth, and Ron glowered fiercely at the Gamekeeper's back as he walked away. His baleful stare turned immediately to Harry, and there was pure loathing in it—a vicious anger that Celestine recognized well. There would never be peace between them, not even a tenuous truce to end the violence.

From what she had heard about Hogwarts, it was a place of secret duels, underhand bullying and brutal rivalries that sometimes spanned years. Her mother had been a notorious tyrant during her time, terrorizing most of the students before she was even in her third year. And considering most of the noble children had parents on the Hogwarts Board of Governors, it was rare that a student was ever expelled. The worst they were punished with was detention or a short suspension, which often meant sending the student home for a week or so.

You would they actually _wanted_ students to fight.

"I _will_ get my wand back, Potter," said Ron, as the students began to move on. "Maybe not soon, but it'll happen."

Harry just watched him, and then beckoned to Hermione and Celestine as if nothing had happened. Neville kept his distance, which was no surprise, but he stayed close enough as not to be entirely alone.

The Hogwarts gate loomed above them, and Regulus came to a halt before it. He raised his fist and knocked thrice, the sound unnaturally loud in the silence of the night. For a moment, nothing happened, and then the doors swung open to reveal a tall, stern woman in midnight-blue dress robes.

"Minerva McGonagall," breathed Hermione under her breath. "She's one of the greatest witches of her generation and undoubtedly one of the most knowledgeable in the subject of Transfiguration. I read in _Transfiguration: A History_ that she single-handedly rediscovered the ancient magical properties of quicksilver and ectoplasm. They say she even be as good as Albus Dumbledore, but there're some who still believe otherwise."

_Oh, lovely. Is there anything she doesn't know?_

Celestine was aware Professor McGonagall was Rose Potter's adoptive mother. She had seen them on more than one occasion in Diagon Alley, in the company of Severus Snape and Damien Potter, both of whom she had disliked on sight. Celestine was prone to making snap judgments about people, but she believed herself to be in the right when it came to the Potions Master and his son. They were too much alike, quiet and reserved, even somewhat arrogant.

Like Dudley.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," spoke the Professor, surveying them with a shrewd eye and drawing Celestine out of her thoughts. "I hope you have had a safe journey. My name is Minerva McGonagall and I am the head of the Transfiguration Department here at Hogwarts as well as the Head of Gryffindor House.

"You will soon be escorted to the Great Hall to await sorting into your respective Houses," she continued. "For some of you, it may be a trying experience, but not do not fear. This is the beginning of your time at Hogwarts, which I hope will be both enlightening and fulfilling to you all. Thank you, Regulus. I'll take it from here."

The dark-haired man nodded and disappeared, leaving them with the witch. "Follow me, first years."

The filed through open doors into the Entrance Hall, its high vaulted ceiling rising far above them. The school was ancient, and Celestine could feel it in bones as surely as she did when she was at the Lestrange Manor, amongst all her family history. There was a sense of deep grandeur to it all, as if the stones itself breathed with life. Hogwarts was a place of a magic and power, a place where the most gifted witches and wizards of history had passed through on their path to greatness.

"Hogwarts was built in late Early Middle Ages, with the foundation stones laid by the four most celebrated wizards of their time, Rowena Ravenclaw, Salazar Slytherin, Helga Hufflepuff and Godric Gryffindor," said the Professor, leading them through the halls. "It is considered to have the most ancient and powerful protection in the whole of the wizarding world, with some of the original defenses being forged by Godric Gryffindor's own hands, considered by many to be the most skilled warder in history. It has been the task of Headmaster's since to learn Gryffindor's original designs and raise the defenses should the need ever come.

"For this very reason, Hogwarts has never fallen into the hands of dark wizards, despite numerous attempts by some of the most powerful Dark Lords who have ever tainted history" she said. "I say this to assure you that despite what you may have heard concerning the wizard Gellert Grindelwald, you have very little to fear within these walls."

_Very little, but not nothing_, thought Celestine sourly.

"Of course, let us not forget that the very man who once defeated and imprisoned Grindelwald is the Headmaster of Hogwarts and undoubtedly the most powerful wizard alive," she continued. "For the next few years, this place will be your home. I hope you will come to love it as much as I have."

And with those solemn words, they arrived at an arched entrance through which they could see the Great Hall. It was lit by hundreds of bright werelights that floated in the air over four long tables, where the rest of the students were seated. The tables were laid with gleaming golden plates and goblets, all empty.

At the very end of the hall opposite the entrance was yet another long table where the teachers sat in stoic silence, dressed in their best robes and looking regal in their place above the students. Hundreds of bright-eyed faces stared at them as they filed in, like pale lanterns in the steady werelight. Celestine looked upward and saw a velvety black ceiling dotted with stars and scattered with tufts of cotton-white clouds.

Hermione's whisper was louder than she thought: "It's bewitched to look like the sky outside. The fourth Headmaster of Hogwarts came up with it."

"Quite right," said McGonagall, turning to give her a smile that only made Hermione blush. "But wait until it rains. It's not nearly as much fun."

Celestine wondered whether she was joking, because it would probably be the stupidest thing in the world if the rain actually passed through the ceiling.

* * *

At that precise moment, Harry had arrived at a number of conclusions, not least of which was that Hogwarts was the first step, that initial leap, which would propel him to achieve his dreams. He was here to learn; to gather all the knowledge he needed to equip himself with the means and intelligence to never have to depend on anyone.

He wouldn't be bound by school curriculum or the pace of his peers. He wouldn't be bound by school books he'd already read during the summer or pointless school rules that kept him from exploring his boundaries. He was not here to relax, to spend the next seven years in ease, enjoying 'school life'. This was a journey of discovery for him, and he owed it to himself to make the best of what he'd been given. To become a wizard who others would fear and respect, one whose enemies would think twice about striking at.

And it all started here, at Hogwarts.

_Slytherin will help you on your way to greatness._

Harry didn't know where the thought came from; it had just appeared in his head, and for a moment he almost thought he'd heard it whispered in his ear. As if the necklace around his throat, the gold Slytherin necklace, had spoken to him.

"What did you say, Dudley?" asked Celestine rudely.

"Sorry?"

"Something about Slytherin," she replied.

"Oh, the Slytherin motto," he replied. "Slytherin will help you on your way to greatness."

Hermione fidgeted slightly. "Isn't Slytherin for…dark wizards?"

Harry only shook his head and smiled.

Professor McGonagall turned around to face them again. Harry had decided he liked her. She didn't seem like the kind to put up with nonsense, a serious witch if he'd ever seen one. She was brilliant too, which meant she actually had something to teach him that he couldn't find in a book. In fact, Harry knew quite a bit about her.

After hearing about his sister, Rose, Harry had asked Griphook for information on the Transfigurations Professor, for a substantial fee of course. The information packet had included Severus Snape as well, an unusually mysterious man whose history was convoluted and inextricably linked with Dumbledore's.

What he'd read about McGonagall impressed him. She'd easily been the most outstanding student of her year while attending Hogwarts, with a noticeable talent for Transfiguration, which had naturally attracted Dumbledore's attention as he'd been the Head of the Transfiguration Department during those days. McGonagall had gone on to become the Headgirl of Hogwarts, which meant she was liked by her teachers and probably envied by her peers.

She'd spent some time in the Ministry, working for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, but apparently not as an auror. Her experience there had been less than satisfactory, claimed Griphook's report, which eventually led her to return to Hogwarts and teach there under the guidance of none other than Dumbledore. Apparently, she'd finally found her place here since she was still around, Head of the Gryffindor House and perhaps the most respected member of the staff after the Headmaster.

"You may take your seats," McGonagall informed them. "Sit wherever you see fit, at the table you believe you most belong, and wait for your name to be called out. When it is, you will come to the front of the hall to be sorted. Remember, there is nothing to fear."

_Or is there?_

The moment Harry stepped through the entrance to the Great Hall, his gaze sought out the figure on the other end of the open space, seated at the very center of the staff table. Although he was sitting, Harry could tell Dumbledore was an incredibly tall man. He was quite old, judging by the gray of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to disappear under the edge of the table. He was wearing purple robes and an odd hat, and a pair of half-moon spectacles rested on the end of his nose, almost as if he was looking down on the world from his lofty place in the clouds.

Even as far as he was, Harry could feel the man's power. The sheer force of his character, which demanded attention; commanded obedience. Perhaps he seemed harmless to many, but Harry knew what hid under that grandfatherly visage. He was the man who'd defeated Gellert Grindelwald, who had battled and captured dozens of dark wizards, and who had kept Voldemort at bay for many years. To underestimate him was the greatest mistake anyone could male.

Harry snapped out of his thoughts when a loud call broke through the chatter of students, reaching him and possibly every other student in the hall.

"Harry Black!" shouted a voice.

He turned toward the Gryffindor table, frowning.

"Harry!" came the voice again. "Over here! Come—"

"Dine with us!"

_Fred and George,_ he thought with a groan. _Of course_.

Almost everyone in the Great Hall twisted in their seats to stare right at him. Hundreds of eyes, boring into him—judgmental, amazed and distrusting. Harry felt their gaze on him, but he found himself entirely unaffected. He didn't care what they thought, so long as they kept their distance and didn't bother him. Fred and George certainly weren't helping the matter at all.

"Neville. Hermione. Celestine," he said, glancing at his three companions with a hopeful smile. "Coming?"

Celestine muttered a curse under her breath and quickly made her way to the Slytherin table, leaving Hermione and Neville behind. Harry let out a sigh and walked toward the Gryffindors, ignoring all the eyes on him. He was tempted to search for his brother and sister, both of whom he knew were in Gryffindor, but there would be time for that later. Instead, he kept his gaze focused right ahead, not caring to meet anyone's eyes.

Several Gryffindor's moved over stealthily, giving Harry, Hermione and Neville space to sit. With their stares still on him, Harry dropped down opposite the twins. Down the length of the table, people craned in their seats to get a look at him, and whispers ran across the Great Hall, nagging at him annoyingly. He felt Ron's glare most acutely, but there were another pair of eyes looking at him just intently.

Green, like his.

She sat almost twenty spaces down from him, a girl with dark red hair and opaline eyes. Harry's heart seized for a moment, as he saw something reflected in those features. A distant memory of a beautiful woman, a flash of green light and a scream so high that it pierced the deepest parts of his mind.

Rose.

The girl looked away first, her cheeks coloring with a dark blush. She stared down at her empty plate, and he waited for her to meet his eyes again, but she wouldn't. Why wouldn't she? _Is she afraid of me? Angry? Disappointed?_

Harry dismissed the thoughts to be addressed later, without the whole world watching his every move.

"Fred," he said nodding to one of the twins and then the other. "George. It's good to see you again."

"I'm George, not Fred. Honestly, Harry."

"No, you're Fred," he replied with a twitch of his lips. "I'm not fooled."

The twins looked at each other with raised eyebrows. "Well, that's quite impressive, Harry."

"Not even our mother can tell us apart," said Fred. "How'd you do it, then?"

Harry pointed at Fred's sleeves. "You're missing a cuff," he replied. "I noticed on the train when you introduced yourselves."

"Clever, very clever," said George, grinning at him deviously. "But it's a good thing we didn't introduce ourselves correctly then, isn't it? We lied, Harry."

"I'm George," said Fred. "And this is Fred."

He looked at them for a long moment.

"Does it really matter?" asked Hermione from beside him.

Harry shrugged. "I suppose not," he said. "So tell me, Fred…George. Why am I here, exactly? And don't say you invited me out of the kindness of your hearts. From what I can tell, you'd much rather make a fool out of me than by my friends."

One of the twins (George?) clapped a hand over his heart. "You wound us, Harry!" he exclaimed, loudly enough once again and have everyone looking. "Why would you ever think that?"

"We're the best friends a man could have."

"Fun."

"Clever."

"Loyal."

"Brave."

"And fun."

"Don't forget clever too."

Fred leaned back. "Simply extending an olive branch, Harry," he said. "We don't want our brother's problems to be our problems."

"Ron's a prick," said the other.

Hermione bobbed her head in agreement; she still seemed upset with the Weasley for pushing her.

Harry smiled slightly. "You mentioned that."

"Well pricks tend to prod what they shouldn't be pricking," said George. "And seeing as how our brother walked in with a swollen nose, I'm guessing the situation hasn't much improved since last we met."

"All we want is some good old fun," continued the other twin. "We like getting on people's nerves, and right now, you have more potential to cause havoc than any other person in the wizarding world."

"So…should you ever need our help with anything—"

"_Anything_."

"—Just tell us and we'll be happy to oblige," said George. "Should you require contraband of any kind—we have patented inventions designed specifically to bring chaos. Mums the word, Harry."

Hermione was giving them a disapproving look, a deep frown on her face, and Neville seemed overly interested in the werelights overhead, almost as if he didn't want any part in the ongoing conversation.

"Sleep on it, Harry."

"Dream about it."

"Come over to the dark side."

"Oh, look," said one of the twins, suddenly distracted. "It's about to start. You'd better choose Gryffindor!"

Harry looked around to see Professor McGonagall silently place a four-legged stool at the front of the Great Hall. On top of the stool she put a pointed wizard's hat. This hat was patched and frayed and extremely dirty, no more than a rag, really.

For a few seconds, there was complete silence. Then the hat twitched. A rip near the brim opened wide like a mouth and then—

The Sorting Hat started singing some stupid song in a grating voice that had everyone clapping their hands over their ears and howling in displeasure.

"_Quietus,_" said George, waving his wand.

Harry recognized the spell from his time reading over the summer, just one of many he had studied and dedicated to memory, intent on practicing them once he was at Hogwarts. The moment the spell was done, a cone of silence settled over them, canceling out the Sorting Hat's song.

"George and I have wanted to burn that hat ever since we came to Hogwarts," said Fred. "Dumbledore keeps it locked away though so we've never had a shot. We're hoping this year will be different."

Hermione's perpetual frown deepened. "The Sorting Hat is an ancient relic of the wizarding world; the magic that made is now long lost," she said crossly. "You seriously aren't going to try destroying it, are you?"

Fred and George stared at her.

"_You are?_"

Harry laughed aloud and nudged her with his elbow. "Don't worry, Hermione," he said. "I doubt they can. If it's a precious as you say it is, Dumbledore probably has a thousand charms on it. Charms I'm sure no student in Hogwarts can break."

"We thought about that," replied the twins impishly. "But there's always a way around magic, Harry. We make it our business to know these things. And I guess the Sorting Hat's done with his song. Good riddance."

The cone of silence lifted and the Great Hall's noise reached them once again, a clamor of voices excited for the sorting. Professor McGonagall now stepped forward holding a long roll of parchment.

"When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted,' she said, looking up briefly to fix the hall under her gaze. "Any derogatory comments towards the students and or the Houses will result in immediate detention.

"Abbot, Hannah!"

A curly-haired girl slipped away from the Hufflepuff table and shuffled over to the stool. Professor McGonagall waited for her to take a seat before lowering the hat down on her head.

Before it had even touched, the hat shouted, "HUFFLEPUFF!"

The Great Hall broke out in claps, and the Hufflepuff table cheered for the girl as she beat a hasty retreat to where her friends were sitting. Harry realized suddenly that they were moving in alphabetical order, arranged by second names. He was probably going to be called—

"Black, Harry!"

Heads swiveled on hundreds of necks, and Harry let out a quiet sigh of frustration. He rose smoothly from the table, gave Hermione and Neville a warm smile, and then crossed between the isles towards the Sorting Hat.

* * *

Dumbledore watched quietly as the boy looked down at his friends, a confident smile coloring his face. The Headmaster had been pleased to see Harry join the Gryffindor table; he had feared the possibility that the boy's life had somehow twisted him, stripping him of those qualities that were so abundant in Lily and James Potter, and by extension in Rose and Damien.

But there remained the distinct chance that Dumbledore could not read Harry as he did others; from what he had heard, the boy wasn't a fool. That he had somehow earned the respect of Griphook the Stalwart. Furthermore, there was the business surrounding the Noble House of Black, certainly something to worry about.

With the discerning eye of a man who had stared down the greatest wizards of his time, Albus Dumbledore watched Harry's solitary march towards the Sorting Hat.

* * *

Rose Potter had almost leapt out of her seat when she heard her brother's name called out across the Great Hall, summoning forth a tide of voices.

"Black, Harry."

The boy stood, smiling at his friends. There was no fear there, not like what Rose had felt when she'd been called the year before. He straightened his robes with a careless gesture and moved toward the hat, his step sure and unfaltering.

"Is that him?" asked Katie Bell, her best friend and classmate, sounding awed.

"Yes," she whispered softly. "That's him."

"He has your eyes."

"My mothers," replied Rose, absentmindedly.

"But he looks like Damien."

"Like my father," corrected Rose a second time.

Katie's grin was obvious in her voice. "Damien's looks and your eyes," she said. "He's going to have to fight the girls off with a stick."

"Eww!" exclaimed Angelina Johnson. "He's eleven!"

"And I'm twelve," countered Katie. "Besides, I meant in a year or two. Not now. But just look at him."

Rose watched her brother every step of the way. She wanted to look at Damien, to see his reaction, but she knew her brother wouldn't be happy. He hated Harry—hated him. She'd never thought it possible, but he did. And she didn't know why.

It tore her up inside. It hurt her beyond imagining.

* * *

Celestine watched Harry react to his name, or rather not react at all. He just stood and smiled, and Celestine wondered whether she could ever muster that composure. Once again, she marveled at his nature, his absolute Slytherin-ness. There was no doubt in her mind what the Sorting Hat would say.

Certainly not Gryffindor.

Slowly, quietly, he reached the stool and sat down facing the ocean of enraptured students. Professor McGonagall stepped forward tentatively, hat in hand, but paused before she lowered it onto his head. It was almost as if she was afraid what would happen.

Then she set it down.

* * *

Harry felt the hat's warmth engulf him a second before darkness settled over his vision.

"Hmm…" said a voice in his head, resounding against the boundaries of his mind and echoing back in a thousand discordant but distant sounds.

It was powerful, old and wise, what he imagined Dumbledore to be.

"I am certainly not Dumbledore."

Harry sat perfectly still. "You can read my thoughts," he asked. Then: "Of course you can. How else would you sort me?"

"Not very smart are you?"

There was a mocking laugh.

"Do you talk to everyone like this or am I special?"

The hat wriggled on his head. "Most times, the answer is quite evident," said the hat. "Eleven-year-olds do not usually have a wealth of experience to shape them. They are a bundle of emotion, of unfocused thoughts but clear intentions. I can often discern their true nature without much trouble, but it is not as simple with those who have lived a more…colorful life."

"That's one way to put it."

"A life where they were beaten, ridiculed, used and kept no better than a slave," said the hat. "A life of hatred, fear and suffering—every moment a waking nightmare, every thought consumed by dreams of revenge. I know you, boy. Better than you know yourself."

"Show off."

"Your anger is deeply entrenched in your soul, a spreading corruption," spoke the hat. "It eats at you, and it feeds you dreams. You have the intelligence of Ravenclaw, certainly, but the House will do you no good, and I have no interest in exposing those children to your malice. Hufflepuff is certainly not your House, and that I do not even have to explain."

"Just ask me what I want already," thought Harry. "You've already read it from my mind. Make you decision and let me go."

"Why?" asked the hat. "I thought you were unimpressed. I can read your mind, and therefore I see your contempt of me. You do not believe I have any right to decide where you go. You do not believe I can understand you."

Harry snorted, but he knew no one could hear. This conversation was in his head. "You're a product of complex magic, but you're ultimately a human creation, with a specific function beyond which you have no understanding," said Harry dismissively. "I have no doubt you know what suffering is, but you have no understanding of what it is to experience that suffering, nor to contemplate its effects.

"Similarly, you might know what motivates a human; you might know what emotion is. But you have never had any motivations nor any emotions, and therefore you have no inkling of what it means to be human," continued Harry. "You follow a set of formulas and arrive at a conclusion you cannot even begin to understand. You are a flawed and antiquated tool, tolerated only by tradition. I would rather not leave my future in your hands."

"So much hatred."

"Enough." Harry's voice was hard now, tendrils of pain spreading through his mind. "Slytherin is my house. Leave me be."

"Not Gryffindor?" asked the hat with a wily twist to its voice. "Your siblings have found their time there most fulfilling. As did your parents."

"My parents are dead because they were brave; we are orphans," replied Harry, trying to hold back the agony. "You have to reconsider your definition of fulfilling. As for Gryffindor, I have no interest in heroics. I am no lion."

"A snake then? A worm?"

"A basilisk, if anything," he growled.

The hat laughed, and Harry would have curled up into a ball to escape the noise if he could. There was simply too much magic in it for him to deal with all at once. It was hurting him, affecting his mind in ways he couldn't understand. It was clear the hat wasn't intended to remain on for as long as it had.

"I am the amalgam of four parts. Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin," said the hat. "Two parts of me argue most vehemently on your behalf. Gryffindor seeks you for your power, your potential to lead and bring peace. He sees the valor you do not.

"My other quarter sees your power too, but he hungers to coax the darkness, to bring out the cunning and desire for greatness," continued the hat. "You can either be loved or feared, but never both. What will it be?"

"Slytherin," said Harry with finality, struggling not to scream in pain. "Love will not frighten my enemies; love will not bring me safety. But fear…I know fear. I know it better than you, or anyone else. It is fear I seek, and you will give it to me."

"Very well…"

And then the Sorting Hat shouted.

* * *

The students and teachers watched in hushed silence.

At first, the boy sat perfectly still, the hat resting there unmoving. They waited. A minute, two minutes. The hat twitched, and so did the boy. He began to tremble. They could see the quake in his hands, which spread slowly to his knees and through all of his body. It was slight, and if they had not been watching so closely, they might have seen it.

Another minute passed, and then the hat stirred. The slit opened. A roar erupted.

"SLYTHERIN!"

Hermione almost jumped up and clapped, but it took her a second to realize what the hat had said.

Everyone in the Great Hall began to cheer, but they stopped as the single word sunk in.

Fred looked at George. George looked at Fred.

Katie Bell just pouted.

Severus Snape choked on his own tongue.

Dumbledore smiled, but the twinkle was gone from his eye.

Minerva McGonagall made no move to take the hat.

Ron shouted with glee and pumped his fists.

Draco Malfoy was as calm as ever.

Celestine Lestrange smirked.

Neville Longbottom had no idea what was happening.

And then some idiot jumped to his feet and shouted, "THE DARK LORD LIVES!"

That's when all hell broke loose. All but the Slytherin table leapt to their feet.

* * *

Rose Potter's hand had clamped down over her mouth, trying desperately to contain the horror that threatened to spill out. She'd read all the _Daily Prophet _articles but thought nothing of them. And suddenly, with a sinking feeling in her gut, she began to wonder whether they were true. Whether Rita Skeeter had seen the truth no one else could.

Her brother had survived a killing curse. A KILLING CURSE. Who knew what that had done to him?

A hand clamped down on her shoulder, and she turned to find Damien crouched down behind her seat, shielded by the rows of students. He looked troubled and sad, almost as if his worst nightmare had come true.

"Are you sure that's our brother?" he asked.

Rose couldn't answer.

* * *

Author's Note: CLIFF HANGER. Not really, but still. Gimme dem reviews. Next chapter, Harry belly-dances for Dumbledore.


	12. Interlude: Eleanor Vadyrn 20

**A/N:** And yet another interlude. These are fun. Don't know why. I think it's mostly because they present a few of the story that you don't glimpse while reading Rowlings books. Anyhow, enjoy!

* * *

**Interlude**

**Eleanor Vadyrn**

Eleanor watched quietly from her position behind the staff table as The-Boy-Who-Lived settled on the stool and surrendered himself to the examination of the Sorting Hat. A while passed, longer than any student who had sat on the stool before, and when it was over, a resounding roar tore through the Great Hall.

"SLYTHERIN!"

Confusion reigned.

A tide of panic passed through the sea of students, some repelled, others shocked, and the rest even more glad to see it happen—to see the order of things overthrown, the fairy tale of The-Boy-Who-Lived shattered in a single moment. The stories told of a hero who vanquished the Dark Lord were no more, and new legends already blossomed in their place, darker and more sinister.

Eleanor Vadyrn's eyes never wavered from the boy as he stepped down from the stool and handed the Sorting Hat to Professor McGonagall, who had not moved since the hat had made its announcement to the hall. He ignored the clamor—the jeers, taunts and cheers—and glanced for an instant toward the staff table, staring right at Albus Dumbledore. It was so quick that only those who were looking very closely might have seen it happen.

He turned on foot and walked the length of the hall at a steady pace, not trying to hurry. His approach toward the Slytherin table was met by its inhabitants in silence as the students of Salazar's house watched him with a mix of apprehension and impassiveness. He matched their flat stares with one of his own and sat down beside a violet-eyed girl, who laughed aloud and immediately leaned over to say something over the noise.

The-Boy-Who-Lived smiled, but there was no mirth behind it. There was a haunted look about him, almost as if the sorting had scarred him somehow. It was an ancient piece of magic, and his extended exposure to its power would have certainly affected him. Eleanor had an understanding of such things.

However, even with the The-Boy-Who-Lived seated at his table, the voices did not die down, the Houses would not be silent. And then, without warning, a blanket of rippling power spread across the Great Hall, instilling immediate and absolute stillness. Albus Dumbledore had stood up, towering over every student and teacher. His aura expanded outward, an almost tangible force keeping them in their seats.

"Professor McGonagall," he said in a low and calming voice, "you may continue with the sorting."

The Transfiguration's Professor drew herself up and nodded firmly. "Yes, of course, Headmaster," she replied. "Bones, Susan. Come forward."

The girl quickly assumed the seat.

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

"Boot, Terry!"

"RAVENCLAW!"

"Brown, Lavender!"

"GRYFFINDOR!"

A number of names were called out, before "Granger, Hermione!"

There was a brief silence, slightly longer than before.

"RAVENCLAW!"

Harry clapped this time, loudly too. This had everyone focusing on the girl, who seemed unaffected by the stares, her eyes distant and thoughtful as she arrived at the Ravenclaw table amidst a surge of cheering. She twisted around briefly and smiled at The-Boy-Who-Lived before descending into animated conversation with her neighbors.

"Longbottom, Neville!"

"GRYFFINDOR!"

"Lestrange, Celestine!"

This attracted almost as much attention as Harry Potter's name. And when people realized who Celestine was, and the fact that she was sitting right beside The-Boy-Who-Lived, the whispers picked up once more.

"Death Eater…Potter…friends."

"Black…Lestrange…Death Eaters."

"Longbottoms…Azkaban."

The girl sat down and the sorting hat fell over her head. A moment passed.

"SLYTHERIN!"

"Malfoy, Draco!" shouted McGonagall, not even waiting for the sound to die down.

The pale boy made his way to the stool, with the Slytherin House cheering him on. The hat not even touched his head before it shouted, "SLYTHERIN!"

Others were called forward, many more, and it was almost ten minutes before the list wound down and the hall settled into a tenuous silence, one easily broken. McGonagall rolled up the scroll and carried the Sorting Hat away. She assumed the empty seat to the right of Dumbledore, sitting with her back straight and waiting for the Headmaster to address his students.

After a short moment, Dumbledore stood and towered to his full height, staring down at the students along the length of his slender nose. His blue eyes held deep warmth, a reassuring and powerful love, and the Great Hall held their breaths in anticipation for his address. He always had something interesting to say.

"Welcome!" he spoke in a deep and sonorous voice. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. We have new teacher on staff, Professor Eleanor Vadyrn, who has come a long way to be with us and who will be teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts this year at Hogwarts. Professor Vadyrn is a brilliant and prolific witch who will provide you with a true understanding of what it means to defend yourself against the Dark Arts."

Eleanor stood from her seat and bowed to Dumbledore and then to the students before sitting back down; the applause was weak—the disbelief even strong—after what had happened during the sorting, but it seemed more than a few people were glad to have a young female teacher.

"In a moment, I will allow Professor Vadyrn to say a few words, but there are a few start-of-term notices to give you,

"First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils—hence the Forbidden Forest. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well."

Dumbledore's twinkling eyes flashed in the direction of the Weasley twins and stayed there for longer than a second, drawing laughter out of the somewhat tense student body. They had enough sense to hang their heads in mock shame.

"I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors," he continued. "Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their House teams should contact Madam Hooch. And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."

Eleanor Vadyrn was surprised to hear the announcement, simply because she had not expected the Headmaster to use those exact words. Her skill with wards had alerted her to the presence of an intricate web of defenses within the castle walls, all situated in and around the third-floor. Albus Dumbledore was intent on protecting something, and he had employed all his knowledge of wards and magical traps to lay out a complex defense that even she would find almost impossible to break without weeks and weeks of preparation.

"And now, Professor Vadyrn, if you will."

She nodded and stood again. "Thank you, Headmaster," she said, he voice low and gravelly, but easily reaching even the farthest corners of the hall. "It is an honor to teach here at Hogwarts. I will not keep you long from your banquet, but I have been asked by Headmaster to provide you a few words of warning.

"As you all know by now, the dark wizard Gellert Grindelwald—known by many as the Blackmage—has escaped his prison of Nurmengard where he was incarcerated many years ago," she continued, her black eyes hard and cold in the werelight. "As is the nature of dark wizards, Grindelwald is both brilliant and clever. His cruelty knows no bounds and he lives only by one law—his own. To disregard or dismiss the threat he poses to the wizarding world would be a grave mistake and possibly a fatal one. It is our duty to give this danger the attention and fear that it deserves.

"Be warned," she spoke, her voice a little louder now, "that should you feel the pull of darkness, should you believe that something is afoot within these walls, it is your duty to report to the staff. Hogwarts is undoubtedly the safest place to be in this time of upheaval, but Grindelwald will seek to corrupt the minds of the new generation. He will seek to twist you by any means, and you must be prepared to reject the advances of darkness. It may be sweet and tempting, but darkness is a cold and unforgiving master, and in its clutches you will find nothing but misery."

She sat down.

Dumbledore stood again, saying a few words, but Eleanor Vadyrn was not listening anymore. The-Boy-Who-Lived watched her with green, hawk-like eyes, not caring to hide his curiosity.

* * *

**A/N:** In the next chapter, Harry descends into the dungeons (where the Slytherin dorms are located), and has to face-off against those who would rather see him gone.


End file.
